


A Divine Little Thing

by ALWrites



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: (very minor), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Homophobia, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Orphanage, Prostitution, Sexual Content, Smoking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 10:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALWrites/pseuds/ALWrites
Summary: Chanyeol didn't know anything would come from bumping into a little orphan named Baekhyun, but now he is thanking Fate, God, and even Father Christmas.





	A Divine Little Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Genre: Romance, VictorianEra!AU ~ Nobleman!Chanyeol & Orphan!Baekhyun  
>  **Warnings: Barely noticeable angst, barely noticeable violence (very minor abuse), sexual content, age gap (of 10 years), underage Baekhyun, Chanyeol smokes, death of parent, mentions of prostitution, homophobia & and a visit to a brothel **
> 
> Its taken me a year to get around to editing this! Finally, I have! There are probably still typos in here but I was concerned about my comma splices more than anything xD This was posted a year ago on my AFF ~ I am currently working on crossposting my fics which is why this has appeared here. 
> 
> I hope those of you who are reading the fic for the first time will like it! 
> 
> Please read the warnings, not just the tags. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Sex with a minor is statutory rape whether there is consent or not. In no way do I condone the actions of the characters in this fic. Baekhyun's age makes the sexual relationship illegal. Please take note that the legal age of consent in England is 16.**
> 
> For those who wish to know, Baekhyun is 17 (turning 18) and Chanyeol is 28.
> 
>  
> 
> If you enjoy this, please leave a comment!♥  
> ~Amy(ᵔᴥᵔ)

 

[(Link to AFF version) ](http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1207136) -- If you have a moment, please read [this post](https://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1207136/2)! Thank you!(ᵔᴥᵔ)

 

 

 

The Red House is a place that Chanyeol has blessed with his presence many a time over his eight years spent living in London. He steps out on a fine Monday afternoon, newly refreshed after a session with one of the young newer boys who had been so adorably inexperienced. Calmly, he takes a fine breath of crisp winter air and sighs at the sight of the snow. It is that time of year again when all the rich folk around him use the season as an excuse to be extra jolly and attentive, leaving dinner party invitations piling up on his hallway rug and parcelled gifts cluttering his otherwise pristine doorstep; inconveniences to his day, if he has to give such acts a name. Still, he is not anything like a villain from a Dicken’s novel, for his name is Park Chanyeol and not Ebenezer Scrooge, and he does find himself enjoying the smaller aspects of the festive holiday over the blaring, in-your-face work colleagues and friends who invite themselves over for afternoon tea, claiming that it is the season for giving and that they’ll catch their deaths outside.

Over ice skating, he prefers to take solo strolls through London’s parks, and over gift giving, he would rather see a show at the Drury Lane Theatre with a couple of trusted companions who always have something witty to say about whatever is transpiring on stage; and, most importantly, over the painful family Christmas dinner, he would much rather sit at his own fireplace drinking a glass of red wine, rejoicing in silence and allowing his mind to recharge for upcoming year.

It is not that he likes being alone, nor that he hates it, but as an introverted soul, Chanyeol prefers his own company most of the time, and socialising is something he can find rather draining. Whenever in a public setting, however, he will do his best not to shut people out – whether they be admirers, businessmen or even the waiters at a five-star restaurant – and so he puts his lack of partner down to the fact that no one, this far, has been good enough to beat his own, rather impeccable, if he might say so himself, company.

He is thinking of what to make for dinner, whether he go for the salted duck he has hanging in his kitchen or buy hot pot from a street vender nearby when something – or rather, _someone –_ comes tumbling into his front. From beneath the rim of his top hat, Chanyeol stares down his nose at the scruffy young boy who has come bounding along the pavement without a care in the world for where he was going, and frowns. The lines in his forehead deepen, his eyebrows lower in distaste, and his lips set into a grim line as he works out how to best deal with this new, unexpected occurrence.

“Oh, Sir!” A young woman springs out of nowhere, hurrying to curtsey and showing Chanyeol the top of her muslin bonnet as she bows. Her navy walking skirt blooms against the whitening cobblestones until she straightens her posture again, becoming soft square shoulders clothed beneath a blue pinstripe blouse.

“My apologies!” she cries, staring up at Chanyeol with crazed azure eyes, her face hollow and gaunt – a tell-tale sign that she is no one of real importance. “Please forgive myself and this boy, we shall not trouble you again, Sir.” Her watchful eyes do not wander from Chanyeol as she waits for a reply, yet the more of the nobleman she takes in – the frock coat, the walking stick and the fearsome top hat – the more she cowers and grabs the boy by his shoulders, all but dragging him from Chanyeol’s path.

“Perhaps you should keep both eyes on your child, young miss,” he scolds, almost nonchalantly. The tailored leather of his gloves squeak around the silver globe of his walking stick handle as he clenches his fist. “Wouldn’t want him running into a horse and carriage now, would we?” There is sarcasm in his tone, but the woman is too uneducated to notice – that, or too scared to confront him about it.

The lady bites her lip, blinking up at him with the same huge, round, unsettling steel blue eyes. “He’s not mine, Sir. He’s an orphan. An _orphan_ ,” she glares across at the boy she holds in front of her, their heights practically identical, before she goes on, “who is _about_ to _apologise_.”

Chanyeol’s keen brown eyes skit from the young woman to the boy she has scolded, and for a moment he does little more than stare at his face. Why, he is a delicate little thing.  Soft, white skin and innocent blue eyes, his unruly coffee brown hair making him look expertly shaggy, as though he has just woken up from slumber and not yet tamed his appearance, exchanging a comb for a newsboy hat that sits spryly on his crown. He wears an off-white shirt under a murky green vest, brown neckerchief dangling down over where the faded brass buttons meet in the middle, while the top half of his legs are covered in dark grey shorts and the other half, socks. On his feet are busted pumps, scuffed, scratched, even torn in places. One pair even has the laces missing; Chanyeol grimaces.

“Sorry, Mister,” the boy chirps, the thick cockney accent a pain to decode even at the best of times, “but you must know, I wasn’t doin’ it on purpose. We was just playin’ tag, and I was on that time. So yeah, didn’t mean it, but I’m sorry anyway.” He pouts.

“ _Baekhyun!”_ the woman hisses, as though Baekhyun has just cursed Chanyeol’s entire family tree and even his pet dog – not that he has a pet dog, he’s allergic. She looks scandalised, terrified, and when she turns to look at Chanyeol she quickly becomes flabbergasted at the amused expression on his face. “Please, Sir, if you can find it in you, forgive this little _wretch_ of a boy again. His foot never leaves his mouth, he really can’t help it.”

“And don’t go blamin’ Miss Stott here!” the boy pipes up again. “She hasn’t caused any harm, has she?”

Chanyeol, torturously slow, raises his right eyebrow as his eyes gloss over the boy’s young form, appreciating the shapely work of his calves visible through his knee-high beige socks. He’s tall for someone who looks so young, but not as tall as a grown gentleman should be; if Chanyeol were to hazard a guess at his age, he’d say that the boy is in his early teenage years – fourteen, perhaps. Too young for him to have, but old enough for him to want.

Next thing Chanyeol knows, Baekhyun is yelping after having been taken by the ear, and he enjoys the sight of the boy’s pretty features mangled in pain. The thin snowflakes dust the top of Baekhyun’s cap and the expanse of his shoulders, and one in particular even gets caught in the eyelashes of his right eye. A pleasing picture, Chanyeol thinks briskly, feeling a hot coil tighten deep in his stomach, though he suppresses it.

“I will be on my way,” says the nobleman, eyeing the little orphan as he shrinks away from Miss Stott’s harsh pinch. “Have a very Merry Christmas.”

“A-And to you, Sir!” the young miss hastily calls to Chanyeol’s retreating back, the sound of her hissing remarks to the young boy – ( _“You absolute_ cretin! _Do you have no respect for your superiors?”_ ) – making the nobleman chuckle as he gazes up and assesses the new flurry of snow.

He continues to walk his way home to Islington, where he owns a three story town house opposite a small park with a frozen pond. He exchanges smiles and nods of respect to people he recognises on the street, namely those from all the cases he has worked on ever since he began pursuing his preferred profession of being an investigator, a detective, if you will, of private means. He works in close association with the police, so the chief constable even gets a “Good afternoon” from him as they pass each other on the pavement, the man’s smile hidden beneath his absurdly large moustache.

Ever since he was little, Chanyeol has been obsessed with mysteries and solving things, and when he passed through Eton College with flying colours, barely missing a mark, he realised that remembering things was obviously not a problem for him. He worked for the police for a short time, getting used to the process of how things function in such an occupation, and once he had handed himself a little fame and quite a lot of fortune – on top of his inheritance and family’s pre-existing celebrity – he decided to begin working independently, serving as a reliable option for the police when they are in dire need of someone to get them the right answers in the nick of time. He doesn’t like to be modest with his salary either and has been demanding arguably risible sums of money ever since his father died four years ago, leaving poor old Mummy to live in that awful country estate all by herself.

His family have always been rather protective of their public image. His mother, when not a widow, used to organise grand balls in their city manors and invite all the old and new money in town, sparing no expense on food and decoration in a bid to be the best of the best. His brother, on the other hand, prefers to rule his kingdom through the business domain, destroying smaller enterprises who refuse his partnerships and obliterating competition with that disgustingly smug smirk plastered all over his face. Chanyeol has been the subject of that smirk several times, usually after his older brother has sufficiently silenced him over a crude comment about his questionable sexuality. His sister is impassive but intuitive, unmarried and therefore a servant to whatever their eldest sibling’s wishes may be. She never puts a toe out of line, hardly speaks a word, and appears to have no opinions; Chanyeol likes her the best – which, in actuality, is not that grand a statement. She is somewhat of a witch when the two of them are alone together.

As Chanyeol unlocks the door to his home in the early evening, the sky glowing orange behind the tunnels of black, industry smoke, he is greeted by a mound of seven different letters scattered over the Persian rug in his hallway. Not wasting a moment, for they are an eyesore, he gathers them in his deft hands and enters the drawing room on the right, where he slumps lifelessly into his creased, burgundy armchair. Before him, the hearth smokes wearily from the log he burned this morning, and as his nose twitches from the smell of ashes, he reaches for his pocket knife on the nearby end table.

His mother, blissfully unaware that her son prefers to bat for the same team, continuously sends him letters enquiring after his wellbeing. If she knew of his sexual preference, however, he would be downright outlawed from the family, and most likely erased from every record, portrait, and even diary entry that they have. Of course, he is not the only man who favours other men, for society states that women are not allowed to enjoy sex and therefore, although illegal, homosexuality is not an uncommon occurrence; women tend not to serve their husbands adequately in the bedroom, and so fail to meet their racy expectations. Nevertheless, the fact that these affairs occur as though they are secret dealings on the tabooed black market make all traditional and uneducated folk deem it improper, wrong, and Chanyeol, if given the chance, would never have revealed his true self to his siblings if he had known the backlash it would cause. It is only for their mother and her weak health that they keep it all a secret, pretend it isn’t real, make Chanyeol out to be someone that he is not. Chanyeol could not care less, if he is honest with himself, because as the youngest in the family he has always been overshadowed anyway; he likes living alone, being alone, and having the opportunity to be Park Chanyeol, not just Park Chanseok’s baby brother. Let them leave him in peace, he says.

The fourth letter he opens has him rolling his eyes is discontent, the self-appointed ‘chairman’ of his group of friends anointing him with the pleasure of hosting their monthly dinner party, and he sighs with a shake of his head. Trust Oh Sehun to throw this on him with only two days’ notice. Still, what Oh Sehun wants, Oh Sehun shall get, and Chanyeol dusts off his trousers in order to get to work hiring his regular caterers and cleaners, as well as a couple of butlers for the night.

He does not see Baekhyun again until the very day of the meal when he is out and about in the late afternoon with the comforting knowledge that all is being readily prepared at home. Unable to stomach the thought of mere acquaintances being in his house without him having his own form of backup – also known as his friends – he came out for some fresh air, thinking over conversation topics that he can bring up should the talk get stale later on, even though his dear Junmyeon can gab for England if he had to. His employees do provide some sense of familiarity, though, as he hires the same people each time the abomination takes place.

Chanyeol is passing through Trafalgar Square when he hears the gentle sound of singing, Christmas carols floating through the murky air as mist dances over the frosty blanket of snow now resting over London. In the sky, huge funnels of smoke billow out from the chimneys of factories off in the outskirts, while groups of men carrying small stepladders scurry along the pavements like mice, working hard to keep the impending darkness at bay by lighting the gas lamps along the roads.  London is so busy in crowded places such as this, and Chanyeol asks himself why he has come to an area so claustrophobic and noisy, and not somewhere airy and open like Hyde Park, but before he can turn around to redirect his journey, he sees that little pale face amongst a group of other children, eyes cast down in concentration at the book of carols he holds in his quaintly gloved hands.

Steadily, Chanyeol approaches, wary of slipping on the snow and keeping the end of his cane out of any icy areas, should it send him toppling a whole ninety-degrees forwards. He narrows down the voices until he can hear the boy’s – _Baekhyun’s –_ alone, and to Chanyeol’s rather unfair surprise, it sounds positively lovely.

With a smile, he recalls how the boy stood up to him the other day, clearly pointing out the fact that what happened had been an accident and that there was no one to blame, and with a chuckle, Chanyeol then remembers the pout. It seems, now, that that mouth has another talent, for the voice that leaves the boy’s young lips is purely divine, a gift from God himself just in time for Christmas, and Chanyeol now has a better idea on how to fill in any potential awkward silences that may arise in his dinner party later today.

When the ensemble has finished their set of songs, they disperse towards the gathered crowds with upturned hats, politely asking for donations to better their well-being and for much-needed property repairs. Chanyeol makes a beeline for Miss Stott in the meantime, immediately commanding her attention when he enters her peripheral and being greeted by the sight of ginormous, terrorised eyes.

“Miss Stott,” he says politely, firmly, the woman then bowing her head so hard she might just get whiplash.

“Yes, Sir, how can I help you? I apologise again for what happened on Monday, I have been keeping both eyes on the children now, Sir, I assure you, it won’t happen again!” she blabs insistently, almost as if she’s pleading. If Chanyeol didn’t want to hire Baekhyun to sing for his guests then he would roll his eyes and scold her for being such an annoying busybody, but, alas, he needs to be on her good side – though he doubts she has any other side save for ‘panic-stricken’.

“I am not here about Monday, Miss Stott, I am here for the boy, Baekhyun. I would like to buy him for the night to entertain my guests, to sing for them. I will pay handsomely, though nothing over what I deem to be enough. You would walk the boy to my house and then I shall send him back in a cab, free of charge. It all sounds acceptable, does it not? So, do we have a deal?”

Miss Stott gapes for a little while before she clears her throat, and to Chanyeol’s relief – the fact that he is relieved takes him completely by surprise – she starts spluttering out a vast variety of agreements, creating at least seventeen more ways of saying ‘yes’ in standardised conversation than there were before.

They discuss for a little longer to cover the specifics, time and price and all that, and then Chanyeol is on his way to monitor how things are going back at the house. To his subdued delight, the smells of roasting pork plume from the confines of the kitchen, and the cleaners have dusted the place from top to bottom, each surface gleaming with his stern, well-kept reflection. The Christmas decorations have also been dragged down from their residence in the loft, baubles and festive candles embellished with patterns and beads littered over every surface in imaginative formations. Just as he hooks his top hat on the coat stand at the bottom of the carpeted stairs, a butler comes striding through the door with a bountiful amount of holly garlands and pine wreaths, ready to further furnish the rooms of his ground floor.

His first guest arrives bang on seven O’clock, Junmyeon ever the punctual fanatic, and the rest of the dinner party attendees arrive in dregs after that, sometimes with two minute intervals and sometimes with ten. Baekhyun makes his debut appearance between the main course and dessert, the sound of knuckles rapping against the front door disrupting Sehun’s hunting story, and he looks as though he has never heard a knock before. The young banker drops the position he had frozen in, arms wayward in the air from when he was telling of how the bird he shot began to fall in direct alignment with his head, and he casts a bewildered look to the arch leading out into the hallway.

“Well,” he huffs, “who dares ruin my hilarious tale? Now I shall have to start all over again, what a sham.” With an equally dramatic sigh, he rolls his eyes and sags into his chair, ignoring the comforting words his wife says sweetly to him from her own chair at the table.

Chanyeol excuses himself to tread down his darkly varnished hallway towards his moss green door, he opens it to be greeted with, “Oh, it’s you!” and Baekhyun’s cheeky, pert grin. The nobleman _hmph_ s with feigned indignity, staring down his nose at the little orphan boy dressed in a white shirt with a black waistcoat and shorts, his ears sticking out from where they are pushed down by the rim of his newsboy cap. To see that he has dressed up for the occasion, even though it probably wasn’t by choice, makes Chanyeol respect him just a little bit more.

In response to Chanyeol’s judging stare, Baekhyun sardonically chuckles. Miss Stott, off to the side, looks as mortified as ever, standing there fiddling with her fingers and nervously shifting her eyes.

The night passes by smoothly, with Sehun getting to fully retell his spectacular hunting tale and Baekhyun fitting in about five different Christmas carols – his rendition of ‘Silent Night’ simply entrancing, and Chanyeol finds himself smiling much more than usual. Just the sight of the young orphan stood to the side of his decorated fireplace, head barely scraping the height of the mantelpiece where a red and gold ornamented garland is artfully slung, fills him with a peculiar warmth that he cannot name. He likes having the boy around, that much he has discerned, yet he likes the boy’s smile even more. It is one of those smiles that can captivate a room, brighten up a dull, rainy afternoon, and Chanyeol thinks he may be developing an addiction to it, for his eyes find it hard to look anywhere else throughout the whole evening.

In due course, his guests leave with jolly auras, wishing Baekhyun and himself a Merry Christmas as they step through the small iron gate of his minuscule front garden onto the wide pavement beyond his low brick wall, heading off in every which way to wherever it is that they dwell. Chanyeol stands and waves them off until they have all passed around corners out of sight, and he dismisses the staff he had hired with their ample payments stashed safely within envelopes.

As requested by him before the meal began, the cleaners and cook have saved the leftovers in the kitchen, and Chanyeol spends the next five minutes or so taking the untouched pieces of food between knife and fork and positioning them all on a new plate. With freshly made gravy heating it up somewhat, he decides it ready to be presented and takes it out to Baekhyun who waits patiently in the dining room, twiddling his thumbs as he examines all of his china cabinets.

“Here,” Chanyeol calls, deep voice demanding attention, “you can have the leftovers.”

Baekhyun gasps, looking over his shoulder from where he’d been gawping at an encased display of Chanyeol’s grandmother’s teacups, and with an airy hint to his voice he cries, “ _Really?!”_

The boy practically wolfs it down, looking as though he hasn’t eaten for days, and he giggles randomly at times, his reasons being that, “I just can’t believe this is happenin’.”

“They feed us slop back in the orphanage you know, proper disgustin’ stuff. These might be leftovers but they are a million times better than that load of bollocks.”

Chanyeol snorts, leaning back in his dining chair while fondling a glass of wine, debating whether to light a cigarette. In the end, he caves for his craving, retrieving the pack of eight Gold Flake he has stored within an inner coat pocket alongside his trusty box of matches.

“It’s Madam Poppet who does all the cookin’,” Baekhyun goes on. “Can’t say she’s the best. Can’t say either of ‘em are the best really, considerin’ that they’re women. God,” he laughs as he stares delightfully at a skewered carrot on his delayed fork, “they can’t stand it when I speak my criticism. They take my food away sometimes as punishment, but I say it’s better to go hungry than live off that stuff. Found hairs in it once, I did. Nasty long ones. They don’t give two tosses about how safe it is. I’m surprised I haven’t died yet, or my vocal chords have died, what with how unhygienic theys both are.”

With a smirk and bemused chuckle, Chanyeol takes a sip of his wine, following it from a puff of his cig and a relaxing exhale. “Not gourmet, then?” he teases, earning himself a deadpan glare from the younger boy. “Tell me more about yourself, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol suggests on another note. “I hardly know you at all.”

Baekhyun hums in thought as he stabs a piece of potato and decisively smears it around the circumference of his plate, coating the vegetable in gravy before he takes it in his mouth in one and starts chewing, eyes cast up to the right. “Well, my name is Baekhyun, don’t have a last name ‘cause I don’t have any parents – if you hadn’t guessed already. Got no siblings or livin’ relatives, and Madam Poppet gave me this name after her foreign cousin for some random odd reason. I dunno what goes on inside her head but I don’t think I really wanna know. Anyway, I was born on Christmas Eve they think, at least, that’s when Madam Poppet found me on her doorstep lookin’ about an hour old. Nice, isn’t it? To be dumped just before Christmas. Dunno how I got there, dunno if I was put there on purpose because my mum was plannin’ on killin’ herself, don’t know nothin’, but I don’t dwell on it too much, no point.” He shrugs. “And if she did commit suicide, then I s’pose I’m glad she didn’t take me with her.

“I can’t read or write, even if I saw my name written down on a piece of paper I wouldn’t recognise it. I can read music sheets, though, only a little. There was this older girl at the orphanage who used to play the piano we have there. Her parents were killed when she was seven in a house fire and they used to give her piano lessons before that. It’s worse that way, I think. To have lived a little bit and known your parents, and then have to live a lot and know that you’ll never see them again. Must be hard. Lucky that’s not me, eh?

“She left a few years ago now. You get kicked out of the orphanage when you turn sixteen, see, and unless you’re adopted before then you get sent to some workhouse. God help her, I say.”

For whatever reason, the light behind Baekhyun’s eyes seems to dull, flickering out in the wind as if he is a candle on the sill to an open window, sitting on death row.

“I hear stories ‘bout them places,” he says, lowering his cutlery and placing his hands on his lap instead, eyes down. “How the kids get worked ‘til they die, either by disease, starvation, or the machines they’re forced to use. It’s alright for the adults, innit? They just sit about all day countin’ their money while kids here are gettin’ our fingers cut off, or our heads crushed, legs deformed. It don’t matter to them what happens to us, ‘cause there’ll always be more kids to take our place. Still, I reckon I’m one of the lucky ones, ain’t I? Madam Poppet keeps me around to help get donations, y’know? Says my singin’ voice is one of the best. That don’t mean she’s gonna keep for forever, course. Eighteen and I’m outta here. I’m dreadin’ it. I dunno what I’m gonna do. The only reason the lot of us ain’t in there already is ‘cause of our charity work, but I hear talk that Madam Poppet is thinkin’ of lowerin’ the age to twelve by next year, not that that means anythin’ to me.”

Chanyeol stares with a grim expression at the boy who has become downhearted. Yes, the workhouses are terrible places to end up; and once you are in, it is nearly impossible to get out again. You work in return for food and a place to sleep, not for money, though some better facilities do offer children some form of watered down education. At his age, though, Baekhyun probably would be classed as an adult now, as anyone over ten tends to be. It makes Chanyeol morose to know that the dreams of young babes are being crushed before they are even allowed to let them grow, develop into ambition and determination and dedication. The world is probably missing out on great inventors, playwrights and entrepreneurs, just because those particular people are poor.

“If you could do anything for work,” Chanyeol begins curiously, frowning from around his cigarette as he thinks of the delicate little boy before him locked up in a place so cruel, “what would you be?”

Baekhyun looks up at the question, surprise on his face as if he wasn’t expecting Chanyeol to start a conversation. He smiles wistfully and gazes at his plate. “I’d be a singer, ‘course. Didn’t you hear me just now? I was amazin’!”

Taking another mouthful of wine, Chanyeol laughs, further chuckling when Baekhyun questions his disbelief. He is a walking delight, a radiant glow in Chanyeol’s otherwise dark home, and his dining room has never been so finely decorated with him sat on one of the rosewood chairs. His change of attire – forsaking browns for blacks – contrasts well with the pale nature of his skin, and Chanyeol notices how it seems to reflect the light of the oil lamps as though covered in a film of the most delicate glass. Entranced, Chanyeol submits the images to memory, ensuring that he captures every last detail for maximum accuracy.

“I was almost adopted once,” Baekhyun reveals a little later on when he has stopped proving his talents, singing loudly across the table and slipping Chanyeol’s names into random lines of his Christmas songs. It is safe to say that ‘We Wish you a Merry Chanyeol’ isn’t going to catch on, and Chanyeol thinks he is actually okay with it.

“I didn’t mean to be spyin’ but I heard it anyway, some talk about a ‘bespoke brothel’, one what caters to really rich people, like, _really, really_ rich. All I would have had to do was go there and serve these men and women, give them what they want. Madam Poppet was all for it ‘cause the owner of this place was offerin’ to pay so much for me, but Miss Stott was beggin’ her not to take it and in the end, I never went anywhere, never saw no brothel or nothin’. I don’t think it would have been too bad, you know? Them men and women would have taken care of me, I bet, praised me and looked after me, bought me things, even. It would’ve been nice, even if I would have to use my body.”

Only half an hour later, Chanyeol is sending Baekhyun off in a cab back to the orphanage with his own personal pocket money as a thank you – two shillings and a warning of, “Don’t spend it all at once.”

Although they were not Baekhyun’s last words of the evening, the time when he spoke of the brothel brings up familiar images in Chanyeol’s mind of The Red House, and as he takes himself to bed that night, he cannot help but picture his visitations, stamping Baekhyun’s head onto whichever boy’s body had been serving him at the time. It’s sinful, inappropriate, uncouth, yet Chanyeol still grows aroused.

Having a long history of not being able to sleep while stimulated – sometimes leading to suspicious men visiting his house in the middle of the night and gossip spreading through the grapevine from his neighbours – Chanyeol deals with it the only way he knows how, and fuels the fantasies of Baekhyun dressed in pearls and lace as he works his inconvenience away by hand.

After that night, all Chanyeol can think about is Baekhyun. His voice rings in the empty hallways of his house, his smile flashes behind his eyelids whenever he blinks, and his mind, his mind fails to stray from the sight of the orphan’s delicate face, soft and innocent. Untouched.

Not all his thoughts are impure, of course, for Baekhyun gives off a heavy boyish vibe and Chanyeol would even dare to say that perhaps he is younger than what he had originally thought, maybe only thirteen as opposed to the fourteen he had labelled him upon their first meeting. It is the announcement that he is not yet eighteen that causes him to revoke his earlier assumption. Funny, how he looks so young and his build is so small. Malnourishment probably has a lot to do with it.

Nevertheless, Baekhyun seems to have a knack for consuming Chanyeol’s thoughts without even lifting a finger, and the latter mulls over all the things the boy told him over dinner that night three days ago, thinking of how he must get him to play piano at some point to see how good he is. More than that, though, Chanyeol feels compelled to teach the boy to read and write, to educate him, present him with life skills that will give him a better chance of landing a job away from the workhouse, away from the pollution of factories which dish out respiratory illnesses for breakfast, away from cruel masters who may wish to use his body only for their own pleasure when the other little boys aren’t looking.

It is no surprise, really, when his feet take him to the lower end of Fleet Street, and only when he blinks from his reverie – also known as his ‘Baekhyun fantasising episode’ – does he notice that he is a mere few doors away from where the orphanage is located. He stops before a plain wooden door, clearly hearing the cries and laughter of children running around inside through the splits in the window seams and the holes in the walls. Gazing up, his eyes read the flaking sign above the doorframe.

“Saint Helen’s Orphanage.”

He debates for a moment whether this is the right orphanage, for Baekhyun has not illicitly told him where he resides on a normal day to day basis. For all Chanyeol knows, there could be hundreds of orphanages located around London with Miss Stotts and Madam Poppets.

It takes a while for him to remember that he is a member of the upper class. No one would frown upon him for visiting the wrong orphanage by mistake as they would be too busy being honoured by his presence, and so, with his hypothesis, he throws his cane in the air, catches it midway down the stick, and then uses the silver handle at the end to knock firmly on the door.

To his glee and relief, it is Miss Stott who appears looking as flustered as ever, probably assuming that Chanyeol is here to complain and then scold her for something in regards to Baekhyun. Her eyes nervously scan his surroundings, as if she is afraid he’s brought the police or some other jumped-up thugs to come and attack her. When she belatedly realises that Chanyeol has come alone, she finally steels herself and swallows.

Chanyeol attempts to calm her worries with a taut smile, then asking after the little boy as politely and formally as possible. “Good day,” he smiles. “Is Baekhyun here?” Yet that only results in the poor woman becoming even more fretful. Chanyeol starts to think that this may not be his doing after all, and simply her peculiar personality.

“W-Why, Sir?” she gasps, one hand on her chest and the other resting against the door, probably so that she can slam it shut at a moment’s notice to run away should Chanyeol choose to start shouting the whole neighbourhood down. Nevertheless, Chanyeol has no intention of drawing so much attention to himself. He is here for Baekhyun and Baekhyun alone, not to cause a scene the papers will rave endlessly about in tomorrow’s gossip column.

“I wish to take a stroll today,” he explains curtly, watching with inward amusement as Miss Stott’s eyes grow to be the size of tennis balls before she fusses about blinking when they become too dry, “and I want the boy to accompany me. He is here, isn’t he? I do hope he is.” He flashes a kind smile as he swaps his cane over to the other hand, clenching his leather hand around the globe.

Miss Stott gulps, looking as if she has been caught red-handed. “Yes, sir, yes he is here. I will go and get him. You are more than welcome to come in and wait if the office if you’d like.”

Chanyeol smiles, pleased. “That would be most kind,” he says as he enters, stepping up into the orphanage’s cramped hallway and removing his top hat to prevent it from scraping against the low ceiling. He has always been too tall for, well, poor people buildings. “Oh, and do make sure he dresses up warmly. The weather is rather chilly today what with the freezing fog.”

Miss Stott hastens to nod as she scurries off up the stairs after showing him to the office. He debates whether to put his cane in the umbrella stand by the door, but decides that he does not want to risk forgetting it, even if it means he would have a viable excuse for a return visit. There is no carpet, not even a doormat, and the walls are free from a single lick of paint. It is a shabby establishment, one without comfort, homeliness, not even any lamps, and Chanyeol finds himself snarling silently at the idea of Baekhyun living in such a place.

To relieve himself of his claustrophobic surroundings, he ventures where Miss Stott had pointed and left the door ajar, entering the office with a wary hesitance. What Chanyeol had expected to be an organised environment turns out to be a landfill of papers, children’s toys and useless bric-a-brac, and he has second thoughts about sitting on the moth-eaten armchair when he begins to sympathise with his coat. Dust falls through the uncovered floorboards above him, handfuls floating down in time with the thumps of scampering feet upstairs, and he pulls a face when he has to swipe his shoulder clean. This place is falling apart, or so it seems.

Muffled laughter and excited shouts filter in through the thin walls as Chanyeol opts to take a look around, his investigator instincts kicking in. There are two desks, stacked high with papers and a vase of dead flowers, and as he approaches the first he homes in on the small wooden chest labelled ‘Orphanage Fund’.

“How discreet,” he muses to himself with the hint of a smirk, testing the lid and finding that the money isn’t even locked inside its little chest – not that that would even help if someone decided to stuff it in their bag and run off. He opens it with a single flick of the wrist, finding it rather empty and lacklustre, the bottom of the chest overwhelming in comparison to the handful of coins scattered within, hinting at destitution and poverty. Grimly, Chanyeol sighs at the honesty of it all. Upper-class men like him pay no attention to orphanages, for what is the point of paying to make a child’s life comfortable when they could be benefiting society with hard labour, turning valuable resources into things people vehemently need. That, and the rest of the population are too poor themselves to make useless donations to a group of children no better off than them.

But what confuses Chanyeol is the sight of an open carpet handbag on the desk chair, the sides splayed open from how stuffed the inside is, gloves, a scarf and even an extra pair of shoes shoved inside at peculiar angles to make it all fit. He hazards a peek, meaning for it to only be brief and glossing, when he sees the overflowing purse inside. It is stashed full of coins and paper pound notes, so he folds his arms and frowns, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the end of his walking stick. _Odd_ , he thinks, yet has no time to mull over it further when a lively young boy jumps into the doorway.

“Hello, Mister Park!” Baekhyun cries, excitedly squashing his newsboy cap down on his head and putting on his worse-for-wear gloves.

Chanyeol’s frown does not leave his face as he steps out from where he pretends he was reading the spines of the many titles in the bookcase, and he looks Baekhyun up and down with annoyance tugging at his facial features. Soon, his eyes turn to Miss Stott standing fearfully to the boy’s side and he says, “I thought I told you to dress him up warmly?”

He cannot fathom how Miss Stott thinks that a shirt, waistcoat and thin jacket class as warm clothing, and then there’s the shorts and the socks. How ridiculous; and his calculating mind wonders whether it has something to do with the fact that someone’s purse is congested with money while the orphanage fund is not.

Miss Stott swallows thickly, eyes bulging yet again like that of a bug. She makes to speak but Baekhyun cuts her off, smiling rather shyly as he says, “I don’t feel the cold, Mister Park. It’s alright.”

Sensing that there’s not much he can do on the matter, Chanyeol lets it go, his shoulders sagging with a sigh as he approaches the boy stood midway over the threshold. After all, it’s not like the orphanage has any method of creating heat, so it is probably colder in here than it is out there. Baekhyun will have adapted to his climate by now. “Well then,” Chanyeol rubs his palms together with a flourish, “we had best be off.”

“Where are we goin’, Mister Park?” Baekhyun asks excitedly as he trails after Chanyeol’s well-polished congress gaiter boots, their footsteps thumping in tandem along the plain wooden floorboards of the entrance hall. They tread out the door onto the bustling street, a great rabble moving this way and that going about their daily business. Chanyeol bristles with distaste, decidedly timid in front of so many people.

“First of all,” the nobleman begins, pointing the bottom end of his cane through the air to signal the direction they are going to be walking in, “we shall be buying you a new coat and some trousers, and then I think we shall take a stroll through St James’ Park. I know this excellent tailor on Regent Street who specialises in children’s clothing and I’m sure he’ll have something readymade that will fit you.” Satisfied with his forward thinking, Chanyeol sets a brisk pace, eager to chase away the cold and dress Baekhyun up in clothes befitting of his angelic status.

A moment of quiet passes and Chanyeol’s keen ears pick up on the fact that he can only hear his own, lonesome footsteps without another set galloping along behind him. A glance to his side proves that Baekhyun has stopped walking, and he too does the same, turning around to face the boy who looks to be displeased.

“I don’t want your pity, you know,” Baekhyun pouts, crossing his arms. “And I don’t want no charity either. I don’t need any coats or trousers, I’m fine as I am, always have been and always will be, and I don’t fancy bein’ in your debt just ‘cause of what I told you the other night.”

Chanyeol’s eyes narrow, momentarily befuddled because no one has ever refused his money before, especially not when he offers it, _and_ it is the season of giving – or whatever those town criers declare it to be. In the end, he settles for a short, “Fine,” adding on a resolute “but I am still buying you a pair of gloves,” afterwards. “Because I want to.”

Just like that, Baekhyun’s shy smile is back and there is a blush tinting his cheeks, as though he has pinched them secretly. He starts walking again, dreamily, leaving Chanyeol a little behind him to catch up, and he chuckles. “Well, when you put it that way…” the little orphan grins, looking bashfully beautiful, “I suppose it’s alright.”

Chanyeol wonders whether Baekhyun knows that he is being delightfully coy and whether he means to do it by way of teasing him.

“Is this what you’re gonna do now?” Baekhyun beams giddily, his entire face alight with an undeniable sparkle. “You’re goin’ to buy me all these nice, pretty things and let me play dress up, pretend I’m a gentleman and all that?”

A hearty laugh escapes Chanyeol’s lips, exercising throat muscles that have gone unused for far too long. “If you’d let me,” he agrees with a nod, marvelling at how Baekhyun’s cheeks turn pure scarlet, along with his already rosy nose, at his blunt words.

“Well, I,” Baekhyun smiles brightly and looks up at the stark, white sky, “I would. Only if you’re not doing it out of pity.”

Chanyeol’s stomach flutters at Baekhyun’s indulgence, and soon his mind is working up fantasies of Baekhyun not wearing gentleman’s clothes, but silk. He finds his steps faltering as he watches Baekhyun chuckling to himself, spirit thriving under Chanyeol’s undivided attention. It is not until he has been bumped into that the nobleman snaps from his stupor, quickly feeling the tug on his unbuttoned coat and pushing his walking stick out to trip up the unknown young boy attempting to make off with his wallet.

“How did you react so quickly?” Baekhyun asks later as they finally get to their stroll through St James’ Park, admiring his new leather gloves with an inner lining of sheep wool for comfort and warmth.

“I’m a private investigator,” Chanyeol says in response. “It’s my job to know things.”

 

By some miracle, meeting up with Baekhyun for strolls in London’s little slices of countryside becomes the new norm, however, they switch from St James’ and relocate to Hyde Park, simply because there is more ground to cover. Baekhyun likes to feed the ducks and Chanyeol enjoys watching him do so, the boy’s face illuminating when the creatures come quacking around his feet, begging for seed. Each time they conjoin, Chanyeol buys Baekhyun something new: a scarf, hat, socks, and even shoes on the fourth occasion, Baekhyun lighting up like a firework every time he is given the unwrapped presents.

Whilst milling around the plains of the park, admiring the misty, wintry scenery, they get to know one another by talking of hobbies, interests and aspirations. Chanyeol is prodded into revealing things about himself by the cunning devil that is Baekhyun, the little orphan poking him with his fingers when he insists on staying mum and withholding sought after information.

“Come on, Mister Chanyeol, what do you want from life?”

The question has the nobleman choking on his own breath and he rubs his throat with a wince, detesting the raw tickle that has now settled at the back, itching every time he breathes. “Well, I—" He finds himself stammering under Baekhyun’s intense gaze, mind getting lost the in the deep chasms of his swirling black eyes. Eventually, he manages to mumble, “I don’t know. Freedom is what I wanted, and I got that eight years ago.”

“Is that when you first came to London?” Baekhyun wonders as they pass under the naked branches of an aged oak tree, a chill emanating from its glazed bark.

“You are quite perceptive,” Chanyeol murmurs, unsure of whether that’s a good thing or not. On the one hand, Baekhyun will be able to read and observe things that others cannot, definitely a bonus where an introvert like Chanyeol is concerned, but then he will also be able to wheedle things out of Chanyeol that the latter may want to keep secret. Chanyeol would be helpless, and it worries him a little to be so vulnerable.

Baekhyun grins, blossoming under the praise, and he bites his lower lip to try and contain himself – subsequently driving Chanyeol mad. Just watching the boy walk, with his hands leisurely pocketed away and his feet taking languid, swaggering steps has Chanyeol wondering whether he would be as effortlessly graceful in the bedroom.

“Yikes, that means I was ten when you first came here, and you were, what? How old?”

Chanyeol hesitates, the fact that there is a _ten-year age gap_ sending warning bells blaring through his head. If the boy was ten all those years ago and hasn’t yet had his birthday this year, then that means—the boy is seventeen. A stutter strangles Chanyeol of his words and he gapes at Baekhyun as if he has just admitted to killing the Queen, trying to work out how someone so unintentionally coquettish can be so _god damn young._

“Hello?” Baekhyun waves a hand in front of his face to regain his attention, laughing afterwards when Chanyeol blinks at the stranger that is daylight. “The lights are on but nobody’s home, I take it?” The boy teases him, _teases him,_ and Chanyeol feels sweat building beneath his leather gloves and high neck collar, freezing him to death when the wind catches his nape.

“Twenty,” he eventually grunts out, regaining his walking pace and trying to steady his breathing. “Twenty-eight now, of course.” The silence that follows is only suffocating because of what Chanyeol has just admitted, and he fears that the boy will turn around, call him a paedophile and never meet with him again. He can’t look at Baekhyun, not when they’ve only just started speaking comfortably – a great feat for someone like Chanyeol who is drained by mere small talk.

To diffuse the tension, Chanyeol guides them to a stall selling hand-painted postcards and forces Baekhyun to choose one. Thankfully, it clears the air of their previous conversation, but now Chanyeol has to watch Baekhyun licking his lips and tapping his chin and realises that he has just made it even more catastrophic. At least the boy is distracted.

Still, despite all the joint revelations, the next day Baekhyun comes to meet him without a hitch, a heavenly smile forming freely and laughter bubbling from his throat, no comments about paedophilia or Chanyeol being a weirdo leaving his lips. That day, he buys Baekhyun more treasures as a secret thank you, a thank you for not abandoning him when he had the fearsome ammunition to do so.

It has crossed Chanyeol’s mind before, what Baekhyun does with all the things he buys him. Does he hide them? Share them with the other children in the orphanage? Or does he show them off to make everyone green with envy? He never asks, of course, because it never seems to be the right time, but light is shed on the situation on a Thursday when Baekhyun meets Chanyeol with his old pair of worn-out pumps on his feet, the soles flapping with every step from where they have parted from the sides of his shoes.

“The other kids are jealous of me, that’s all,” Baekhyun dismisses Chanyeol’s concern as if the nobleman did not spend a whole ten pounds on that pair of boots. Chanyeol is not bothered because he cannot afford to buy Baekhyun another pair (because he could buy him a hundred more if he fancied it) but bothered because, if the other children have taken Baekhyun’s shoes away from him, they could take other things too. They may single him out, bully him, report him to their superiors for stealing, and Chanyeol doesn’t want to think of Baekhyun living in such a compromising arrangement. Anyone who does wrong by Baekhyun does wrong by Chanyeol, by deafault, and he’ll make sure that they regret it.

“They just hid them, didn’t ruin them, I don’t think.” The little orphan appears disgruntled, kicking at what looks to the remains of a snowman on the side of the road, but not all that upset. When Chanyeol says that he is going to go and ‘have a word’ with Miss Stott, Baekhyun stops him with a hand to his chest, side-stepping into his path to block the doorway. “Don’t, Mister Chanyeol. I can fight by own battles just fine.”

Albeit reluctant, Chanyeol swallows his pride and delivers Baekhyun a stiff nod. He really wants to be there for Baekhyun in every way possible, but the boy doesn’t want to be babied. Baekhyun doesn’t want to be coddled, smothered, dominated. He wants to be treated as an equal and not out of pity, and Chanyeol thinks that he can live with that, even if it sends some of his most prized fantasies into the flames; namely, Baekhyun drinking from a baby bottle, curled snug in his lap.

On their next meeting, Baekhyun proudly skips to greet Chanyeol at the orphanage door and promptly waggles his left foot in the air, victoriously showing off the boots that he has successfully retrieved with a rather smug smile. Chanyeol laughs, feeling delight swell his chest, and he ushers Baekhyun away from the orphanage with a protective arm around his shoulder. His little orphan has more fight in him than he originally gave him credit for, and he is surprisingly happy to be proved wrong.

They spend the day wandering about London window shopping, Baekhyun boasting good-naturedly about how he cornered a boy named Jongin in one of the upstairs rooms and threatened to tell everyone of the time he wet the bed if he didn’t give him his boots back. To say that Baekhyun is complacent would be an understatement. Still, his sly attitude is forgiven when he develops the adorable habit of pressing his palms flat against the glass of different storefronts, wide eyes marvelling at the grand displays on the other side. As soon as he says, “God, I’d _kill_ for one of those cheese buns!” Chanyeol buys him a cheese bun. And then some more cheese buns.

Steering clear of the park today, they dawdle along the paved and bustling banks of the River Thames before it begins to get late, the azure sky transforming into amber and cobalt in the places where it is not obstructed by the canopy of pebble grey smoke. In face of the pollution, however, it is a fine evening, notwithstanding the sharp breeze that spawns a shiver down Baekhyun’s spine at a particularly hard squall.

They are crossing Blackfriars Bridge, Baekhyun leaning precariously over the edge to take a look at the passing boats that impel clunking chunks of ice out of the way – Chanyeol even takes him by the waist at one point when he swears he is about to go over, and _by George_ is it a slender waist – when Chanyeol stumbles into a familiar face.

“Oh, Mr Park, Sir!” shouts an all too recognisable voice, and Chanyeol stares in distress at the man owning it, a hot flush creeping from the apples of his cheeks up to his ears, the tips smouldering.

It is Mr Kim, the owner of The Red House, and Chanyeol casts a shifty gaze over to Baekhyun to see if there is any recollection in the boy’s eyes. Without a doubt, this is the man who had tried to buy him from the orphanage, and Chanyeol can most definitely appreciate why. He would fit right in with the other boys and girls, for they are the purest members of society. Walking angels, untainted cherubs. What they can do with their bodies is such a juxtaposition that one is singlehandedly shocked into submission. Scenes run through Chanyeol’s head, fleeting images of Baekhyun sashaying across a room before sinking to his knees, running his palms along the length of his thighs as he lowers himself into a crawl before prowling up to him like a cat ready to pounce. He would look stunning, breathtaking, and Chanyeol’s throat promptly loses all of its moisture. 

“I say, Mr Park, we have not been receiving your patronage in these recent weeks. When can we expect to see you again?” Mr Kim tugs on his lapels, buffing out his chest as he smiles handsomely between his favourite customer and a boy whom he has not seen before, though recognises – if the squinting of his eyes hints at anything. He seems irritably merry, and Chanyeol thinks that the glacial water beneath the bridge looks somewhat inviting.

Disarmed and unsure of what to do, the nobleman decides it would be best to just leave and run away in an attempt to avoid a confrontation altogether, and not even Baekhyun, someone who likes to stand up to people and serve justice, is making a move to stop him.

“Forgive us, Mr Kim,” Chanyeol smiles in return, placing his palm on Baekhyun’s back and discreetly beginning to steer him around the man occluding their path, horses and carriages clopping by on their right as they navigate themselves along the pavement back towards solid ground. “We urgently have to be somewhere, but I will be in touch very shortly, worry not!”

Before Mr Kim can object – or even bid them goodbye – Chanyeol is escorting Baekhyun rather hurriedly over the river. He doesn’t slow his pace until they are safely tucked around a corner by a bakery, the warm fragrance of freshly bronzed bread wafting out into the street. He feels like he has just dodged a bullet, and he gasps for breath while rubbing his chest, looking around to make sure that Mr Kim has not followed him with neither a ridiculously happy smile nor a shaking fist.

“Who was that?” Baekhyun asks accusingly, folding his arms and drumming his fingers impatiently along his coat sleeves. He impatiently stares up at Chanyeol, eyes hard and unwavering, and the nobleman finds himself too nervous to be annoyed at the fact that Baekhyun can so easily belittle him.

“No one,” he chokes, trying to avoid the topic yet dragging more attention to it anyway. Chanyeol has a habit of messing up when situations are detrimental, just like now.  

Baekhyun snorts ungracefully, jutting his head back into his neck and giving himself a faint double chin for a couple of seconds. With his face scrunched up disapprovingly, he says, “Didn’t look like no one to me. Come on, tell me who it was.”

Chanyeol braces himself, hands squeaking into fists as he leans on his cane for moral support and actual stability. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he grunts through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring like the horns of blaring trumpets as he glares uneasily down at the boy who is a whole head shorter than him but seems to tower up to the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Baekhyun’s presence will always spellbind him, his mind forever questioning how the little orphan has somehow managed to wrap his fingers around his thoughts and jumble them around until he is scrambling for his sanity. It takes him all of his strength to deny him, yet even then he falters.

But how can he admit to attending The Red House? How can he divulge such a thing when his subjects there resemble Baekhyun in every fashion and thus depict what he would like to do to Baekhyun in turn? The boy would be repulsed, disgusted, would curse him to hell and never meet with him again. Chanyeol, although he likes being alone, has come to value Baekhyun’s company above all kinds of silence – even the welcome type, and he knows that if he was rejected by such a unique wonder it would actually pain him; to no end, most likely.

“Come on, Chanyeol,” the boy pipes up, nodding his head at him as if to offer him strength. “You can tell me; it’s not like I’m in any position to judge. Not that I would anyway.”

Inflating his chest with a large intake of breath, Chanyeol squares his shoulders and looks down his nose at him. “You do _not_ need to know.” His voice is squeaky and embarrassing, but at least he didn’t stutter.

In the quiet that follows, a cat scampers past chasing a rat. Neither of them move, neither of them speak, both expecting the other to raise their voice and do something first. Waiting games do not work both ways, however, and eventually, Baekhyun loses what was left of his endurance, reaching the end of his tether.

“Fine then,” the boy huffs after a pause, unfolding his arms and looking dourly down at his hands as if they are about to be amputated. “Well, you can have your gloves back for a start.”

To Chanyeol’s immeasurable horror, the boy bites the tip of his middle finger and uses his teeth as leverage to remove the glove; the second one follows, Baekhyun’s delicate hands uprooting the leather from where it constricts snugly around his lissom appendages. “And the scarf, too. I won’t be needin’ that.” He starts to unwind his scarf, and Chanyeol finally cracks.

“ _I’ll tell you!”_ he barks suddenly, covering his forehead with his palm as he pants, then reaching out to snatch the boy’s half unwound scarf to jerkily force it back into place because that is where it belongs, around his throat keeping him safe from the cold. It’s _Baekhyun’s,_ he cannot give it back when it was a gift! “Just keep them on, please, I beg of you, keep it all.” The nobleman appears to be physically shaken, perturbed, and Baekhyun blinks up innocently with worrisome lines indenting his forehead, fretting over whether he has pushed too far. “It was Mr Kim on the bridge, the owner of The Red House, the brothel you were almost bought by. Happy now?” he snaps, vigorously rubbing his eyes so he can wear off the memory of Baekhyun removing his gloves and scarf, about to forsake him just because he wouldn’t answer one single bloody question.

The nobleman stands there, breathing raggedly as he waits for Baekhyun’s response, bated breath withheld in his mouth as he steels himself for the rejection. Yet the shouts of anger do not come, and neither do the curses. Instead, Baekhyun turns a delightful peachy pink and smiles behind his scarf, giddy and jumpy as his muted giggles float through the air, skipping along with his steps as he carries on down the pavement leaving Chanyeol behind him. Absolutely flabbergasted, the nobleman follows along in a daze. _Well_ , he thinks, _that was unexpected_. But not unwelcome. It seems that the boy rather liked his answer, though he struggles to fathom why. It’s not like Baekhyun wants to be one of those prostitutes, is it? Or maybe, Chanyeol wonders, just maybe, he does. Perhaps he wants to be _exactly_ like the workers of the night, just not active in the business. Maybe… just for him.

**❅**

In mid-December, when the temperature has fallen far below freezing during the day and ice has overpowered all bodies of water, The Serpentine lake in Hyde Park is open for ice skating, officials handing out skates in return for only a couple of shillings while police constables stand by at the ready to take any injured folk off to the medical tent. There are, admittedly, a few casualties: a young girl who has fallen face forwards and two people who banged heads when they skated into one another. Seeing people with blood trailing down their shins from cuts on their knees doesn’t do much in the way of quelling Chanyeol’s unease at the people literally dancing over the clutches of death. The ice could clearly crack any moment and they may all die from the shock of the water. There would be no saving them then. It would be the end.

The trees are bare, save for the fine layer of flakes dusted over the branches like icing sugar, and snowmen decorate the trodden hills of snow, children winding between them with laughter like bells as snowballs fly every which way through the air. Chanyeol watches the thrill caper across Baekhyun’s features, eyes squinted into crescent moons as his rectangular smile shows itself to the widespread mist, his vibrant breaths breathing icy fire into the air, making him appear too mortal for his appearance. His face is flushed again, an exquisite strawberry pink, and every so often he’ll snuffle so adorably that Chanyeol’s heart starts to hammer, even palpitating when Baekhyun scrunches his nose like a bunny.

The nobleman eventually hands the orphan his handkerchief, laughing joyously when Baekhyun gets embarrassed about blowing his nose with him watching. To combat the issue, he turns away, and Chanyeol doesn’t know why he finds the sound of snot leaving one’s nostrils so painfully endearing. He wants to wrap Baekhyun up in fur blankets and lay him in front of a roaring fire, just so that when he touches his skin it would be as warm as an ember, a reflection of how impassioned Chanyeol has become.

He lets Baekhyun keep the handkerchief, an unstated token of his affection, and they continue to stroll unhurriedly around the park. Baekhyun’s longing gazes to the lake are not unmissed by Chanyeol’s keen eye, but he prays and prays that the boy will not voice his desires.

God, just to spite him, does not answer his prayers. Not at all.

“Can we go ice skating, Mister Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol stills at the question, for what a conundrum it has created. He pretends to be surprised, but in reality, he just comes across like a frightened deer. “O-Oh?” he coughs. “Well I—I—”

“Oh _please!”_ the boy whines, bouncing on his heels like a child at Christmas. “It’ll be so much fun!” he practically begs, clinging onto Chanyeol’s left arm and gazing up pitifully into his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to ice skate; it’s been a dream of mine for forever! Last year we came here to sing carols and I was so jealous that I turned green!” Of course, he didn’t turn green, but Chanyeol is too whipped to realise how ridiculous his statement sounds.

As he watches the boy’s heartfelt expression solidify on his face, showing his sincerity and honesty, Chanyeol takes a deep, steadying breath, and forces out a stiff and stammered, “A-Alright I—Yes okay. If that’s what you—yes—if that’s what you want, fine.” Chanyeol really commends himself for his ability to string together a legible sentence, or lack thereof.   

Then, with appearances and dignity thrown out of the window, he allows himself to be whisked away by an over-excited puppy who elatedly tells the man in charge of skating boots that they require two pairs, one for big feet and one for little feet. Blind from the curious glances of the men in charge, Chanyeol bores his eyes into his wallet so hard that he swears his pound notes begin to smoke, trying to mentally build himself up for what he is about to do.

With a nervous gulp, Chanyeol hands the required amount of money over before turning his attention to the people gliding about on the lake’s frozen surface, his palms getting clammy at the nerves creeping through his system as the sound of metal scraping against nothing more than frozen water leaves his skin crawling. He has never skated before, never wanted to, for the idea of being around so many people at once who could come crashing into him at any time is severely off-putting to someone as reserved and reclusive as himself. A great many things could go wrong. They could die, for a start. Yet the sight of Baekhyun looking so eager, clapping his hands before accepting the two pairs of skates handed to them from over the desk in the temporary gazebo, seems to make it all worth it… for the time being. Chanyeol will not hold control over his emotions once he steps out onto the unknown, even if he does have Baekhyun with him.

The orphan gleefully tootles over to a park bench, an animated boing in his step before he sits down to start tackling the intricate laces of his tailored leather boots. Chanyeol, partially wanting to take his mind off what he is about to do and partly because he fears he’ll be sick if he doesn’t distract himself, crouches down before the boy and begins tying his skates up for him, using it as an excuse to calm himself with inconspicuous caresses of Baekhyun’s ankles and willowy calves – both things he would love to run his mouth over at some point. When Baekhyun turns crimson and they happen to make eye contact, Chanyeol’s mouth wobbles into an unsteady, although candid, smile.

Baekhyun is practically running back to the gazebo, throwing his shoes over at the employees and racing off to the ramp down to the lake without Chanyeol’s company. The nobleman, on the other hand, spends a great deal of time slipping into his own boots, wondering how peaky his face has become, not from envy, but from nausea. When he stands up, he is immediately thrown off balance. Thank God for his cane.

Once he has handed his boots and cane over and been told to “Have fun!” by the cheery man behind the desk, he hobbles his way towards the ramp and makes to, as covertly as possible, cling onto the railings for dear life. Baekhyun pops up at the bottom, seeing straight through his indifferent act and giggling away as if his suffering is comical, and when Chanyeol gets close enough he outstretches a reassuring hand. As soon as the railing is behind him and Baekhyun is his only scaffold, he clings onto him for dear life instead.

Nevertheless, after five minutes on the ice with Baekhyun holding his hand, laughing ever so generously into his ear and sending him face-splitting smiles, Chanyeol does not know what he had been so worried about. Anxiety departs him, leaving him as relaxed as he can be on nature’s slipperiest surface, and he feels so carefree that he finds himself guffawing every time one of them stumbles, slips, or falls on their behind; even the slightest hitch in balance has him keeling over in laughter, Baekhyun’s harmonising alongside. Strangely enough, he is no longer terrified of making a fool out of himself, because Baekhyun is there making a fool out of himself too, and by feeding off the boy’s never-ending confidence, suddenly what anyone else might think or say doesn’t matter anymore.

Chanyeol feels alive on the ice, positively free for once, and as he wipes the happy tears from his eyes at Baekhyun attempting to skate backwards looking so wonderfully triumphant, he realises that this would have never have happened if it were not for him. In general, he has been so much happier since the day they bumped into each other, and he is over the moon that he allowed himself to be impulsive. Who knows where he would be now if he never hired Baekhyun to sing at his dinner party, or if he never invited him out for a stroll? Who knows just how miserable his life would be if none of that ever took place?

Exerted and exhausted, the two of them eventually meander their way back to the slope leading up the snowy banks to the park path, returning the skates and slipping back into the comfort of their own shoes which feel strangely thin in the absence of the metal blade along the bottom. Baekhyun is still wondrously laughing about the time when Chanyeol bumped into a young couple and was accused of trying to flirt with the man’s wife, Baekhyun mocking how Chanyeol had looked the woman up and down and scorned, “ _Oh,_ I don’t _think so_ , _Sir_.”

They fall merrily in step with one another before sitting on the edge of a fountain, no water spurting through the frozen pump yet the glistening frostbitten statue is a display enough. They lean joyfully into one another’s sides, faces blushed and noses numb, ears aching from the cold as their breaths fog the air before them.

“Thank you, Mister Chanyeol. Really, thank you,” Baekhyun smiles, wiping his snuffling nose on the back of his gloved hands before retrieving Chanyeol’s handkerchief from his pocket, and the latter feels something swell in his chest, something flutter in his stomach, and words catch in his throat. “I enjoyed that very much, very, _very_ much.” Baekhyun giggles, the sound coming to an abrupt end when his lips are sealed shut with someone else’s.

Chanyeol just can’t help himself. With Baekhyun sat there looking as picturesque as a painting with a face carved by God, he just dove in and stole the boy’s breath away. Baekhyun doesn’t seem to mind that much, if the eager hands on Chanyeol’s cheeks, reeling him in over and over again, indicate anything. He is even redder when they pull back, but not from the cold.

The dynamics of their relationship change after that, as is to be expected. Chanyeol has little understanding of the way he is feeling, and is, in fact, a little scared of how his heart will race and his stomach will turn whenever he looks at Baekhyun, mind instantly replaying memories of the little orphan boy who has successfully wheedled his way into Chanyeol’s mind, body and soul. And quite possibly his heart, too – though that is a milestone he has yet to reach.

Baekhyun, on the other hand, turns a little shy, becoming modest for a few meetings before he transforms into a kittenish masterpiece, fun-loving and playful with something to always tease Chanyeol about with the lack of a ‘Mister’ before his name, a brand new trick stored up his sleeve every day. The nobleman cherishes every second of his company, thanking Fate, God, and even Father Christmas for bringing Baekhyun into his life.

**❅**

“What does this one say?” Baekhyun wonders, holding a newspaper brazenly in the air, failing to realise that they are not bound by glue, but rather slotted together by folds. The inner pages come tumbling out over his head and Chanyeol chuckles around his cigarette, his mirthful gaze glinting in the light of the blazing fire. “Bollocks,” Baekhyun harrumphs, causing Chanyeol to laugh once more, puffs of smoke polluting the air in time with his exhales. “Anyway,” Baekhyun smiles, voice chipper as he says, “tell me, please.”

With his smoke secured in the grip of his smirk, Chanyeol leans forward off the back of his armchair to take the headline page of the newspaper Baekhyun has just disembowelled. “It says,” he mumbles around his cigarette, removing it to hold between two fingers as he flattens the paper out before him. “’’Tiny Trent’ found and jailed by police with help from their private investigator, Mr C. Park’.”

“ _Oooooh_ ,” Baekhyun teases, winking at Chanyeol as he points exuberantly at him, “that’s you.”

“I know,” Chanyeol replies flatly, handing the paper back to the boy so that he may finish embalming his latest victim. “Tiny Trent was a killer about three years ago who liked to crucify homeless people on the street. He got two people before we tracked him down in the process of nailing the third to a giant cross under London Bridge.”

Baekhyun grimaces. “Sounds like a lovely fella,” is his remark, and he shudders. “So you keep the newspapers you’re featured on, is that it?” Baekhyun questions as he carefully fixes the paper and stores it away in the leather bound book. He is sat on the floor with his legs sprawled about him, the fiery flames of the hearth causing his skin to flicker in a golden glow. Before Chanyeol has nearly enough time to appreciate the view, Baekhyun is thrusting another paper in his face and demanding he read it, this time managing to keep it all intact. Baekhyun is the finest being to ever bless his home.

“I do,” Chanyeol answers Baekhyun’s previous question as he reaches to grab the second paper from a pair of well-crafted hands. “This one says: ‘Lucy Derby found in hotel basement after her disappearance four months ago’.”

Baekhyun looks up that one, tilting his head to the side in thought. Chanyeol eyes zoom in on the movement, a seemingly insignificant cock of the head, yet it is so adorable that Chanyeol blushes, quite thoroughly smitten.  “What happened to her?”

“Human trafficking, we discovered,” the nobleman recalls. “There were seven other girls with her waiting to be shipped off to a handful of wealthy lords in China, but because Lucy Derby was the only girl with a family who had money, she was the only one who appeared in the headline. I believe the other girls are mentioned somewhere in the article, though only in the small print.”

Tapping his chin, Baekhyun thinks for a moment before sifting through the newspapers once again, trying to find another that peaks his interest. Chanyeol has discovered that he tends to go for the ones with pictures; it must be so strange to look at a page filled with your native language, one that you have been able to speak for the entirety of your life, and not know how to read it, not even aware of what your own name looks like. It must be frustrating, Chanyeol imagines, yet does not comment on it for fear of upsetting the boy.

“That’s a little stupid, keepin’ them in the same place for four months.” Baekhyun clucks his tongue as if he was expecting the villains to be, well, better villains. “Like sittin’ ducks.”

“It was revealed that the Chinese men were expecting a delivery of fifteen girls, and the men behind all of this were struggling to find ones that met the strict criteria: blonde, blue eyes, slim build. Virgins. As you can imagine, it is hard to know if a girl is a virgin or not these days when it’s antisocial to talk about sex in public. You cannot exactly ask over afternoon tea, can you?” he chuckles to himself, smoking again, anxiety eased by the drug. “It was an interesting case; poor girls, though. Most of them will be traumatised for years, I cannot imagine that their captors were overly nice. I believe I heard somewhere that Lucy Derby has become a nun and moved into a convent, so I wish her all the best.”

He skims the rest of the old articles while the room is filled with the sounds of shuffling paper and the crackling fire, reading a few other entries about politics, business and crime. It surprises him somewhat to see the name ‘Poppet’ on one of the headings, a brief article on page eleven about a man named Jack Poppet dying unexpectedly in his sleep and leaving his small fortune to his wife, Matilda. The newspaper is about a year and a half old, yet Chanyeol still wonders whether Baekhyun’s Madam Poppet could be the Poppet from the paper. He has come to learn, from his many years in his profession, that there are very few coincidences in life, and Poppet is a fairly uncommon name.

“Oh, I like this picture! What does it m—” Baekhyun calls out, turning with another newspaper in his hands before stopping short at the sound of the front door opening. There is a moment where everything is still, the calm before the storm, and Baekhyun looks to Chanyeol warily for an explanation. After all, who would be walking straight into Chanyeol’s house as if they owned the place?

His sister, of course.

With a heavy groan, Chanyeol closes his eyes and quickly stubs his cigarette on the ashtray. Already feeling the withdrawal symptoms from having the remedy to his nerves repealed, he rubs his temples to expel the incessant sound of his sister’s heeled boots clopping along the hallway, and it sounds as if she is stomping extra loud just to irritate him. He counts the steps, knowing that it takes thirteen to reach the lounge doorway from the main entrance, and without opening his eyes, he speaks his welcome at the break of silence.

“Sister, to what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?”

Seldom do his family acknowledge him, and not this openly; they do not even send letters, lest the postman discover that they are associated in some way, if not by blood. Nevertheless, there had been one evening four years ago, a couple of weeks after their father’s funeral, when his older brother and sister had come around for a drink and an off-the-books smoke. Chanseok had snootily asked Chanyeol whether he intended on living alone forever, and when he had responded with, “Definitely probably,” they had all agreed to have his front door key replicated just in case he dies in his house and no one knows about it. His abode will most likely go to his brother when his life ends unless he should find a significant other to will it to, and Chanseok doesn’t want the antique, eighteenth century front door breaking in when he has to retrieve the body, for that would decrease the value of the property.

Belatedly, Chanyeol then realises that Baekhyun is still here in the room, in full view of his dear sister, and he has a little panic on how to introduce him. His siblings know that he is a homosexual, know that he likes the… _littler_ boys, so really there should be no reason for Chanyeol to deny what is plainly obvious. It is crystal clear who Baekhyun is, what he is and why he is here. He looks like he was just pulled out of The Red House, for crying out loud, and his siblings know well what kind of a place that is; they are both as equally disgusted by it, though Yoora hides behind a veil of nonchalance.

In the end, Chanyeol chooses not to introduce Baekhyun at all. His theorem is ‘better safe than sorry’, but in retrospect, he doesn’t think it’s that great of an idea. Baekhyun has been seen, being defensive about him will only fuel the flames, and, to top it all off, the little orphan is stubborn and bossy; Chanyeol has a horrible feeling that he is going to voice his annoyance, remark sourly on the injustice. After all, just because he is an orphan does not mean he has no name, and Chanyeol could very easily share it.

“Hello, Chanyeol,” Yoora, his sister, replies, speaking horrendously with The Queen’s English. “It has been a while.”

Finally, the nobleman opens his eyes to see his sister pacing warily into the room, her eyes flitting between himself and the boy surrounded by papers in front of the fireplace. Her corset seems to be pulled tighter than ever, hipbones practically bursting out of her flesh in comparison to her waist, though, of course, that is what all men find attractive; apparently. Her clover green skirt protrudes greatly over her bustle, the many layers and frills all floating through the air with each movement she makes while her gloved hands hold onto her closed umbrella. She looks like their mother, disturbingly so, and Chanyeol wishes he had not put out his smoke; rebelliously, he lights another one.

“Has it? I hadn’t noticed,” Chanyeol mumbles from around his cigarette as he lights a match with a crisp whip and brings the flame to singe the end. “Surely you did not just come here because it had been a while.”

“No, I—”

Baekhyun coughs deliberately, drawing attention to himself, and Chanyeol stifles a wince, stilling. His moment of reckoning has come, yet he is still as unprepared for it now as he was in the first place. The silence between them grows heavy and Chanyeol straightens his posture, pushing his hips to the back of his chair as he flippantly waves his cigarette in the direction of the orphan on the floor.

“This is… Baekhyun,” he stammers, voice shaky. “He’s my…” he pauses, scampering around his brain in a panic to pick the right word, “close friend.” With a quick shift, he averts his eyes before he can see Baekhyun’s look of annoyance, displeasure, and even betrayal. To ease his ever-growing anxiety on the matter, he smokes. It hurts to see Baekhyun put-out as if he really is nothing but a nameless orphan, when, in actual fact, he is so much more. But he does not want Baekhyun’s good name on the tongues of poisonous relatives, does not want his image shamed even further by things out of his control, things that are not his fault. His family are undeserving of him, Chanyeol deduces, and why should he let them into this monumental moment in his life when he has been made an outlaw in theirs?

“Mummy is unwell again,” Yoora declares as if Baekhyun was never introduced, as if he is invisible, another piece of the furniture. “Bedridden. She has been seen by three doctors and none of them think she will last very long.” She speaks with a sense of boredom, her voice a few notes higher than usual, yet there are jarring gaps between her sentences as though she is keeping tears at bay. Of course, she cannot show that she is upset, for women do not have feelings. Only God knows why she feels this way, however, for their mother was never the best at doing her job. When Chanyeol thinks back to his childhood, he can only recall nannies and tutors, a lifetime locked away in a classroom before returning to a poor excuse of a home with a very similar environment.

“Oh dear,” he murmurs, not intentionally being sarcastic but being sarcastic nonetheless, around his cigarette.

Yoora gasps, eyes shining with unshed tears. “How can you say that? And in that tone, too? She is our _mother!_ ” Breathless, she puts her hand to her chest, covered with yet more frills of a chiffon shirt, as if she has been wounded. Disgust paints a pretty landscape across her face.

“I am sorry,” she adds meekly a few seconds later. “I was in town so I thought I would stop by to tell you. Chanseok said not to bother sending you a letter because you probably would not read it.”

“He’s not wrong,” Chanyeol answers blankly, drawing in a large lungful of smoke as he stares off at the opposite wall, blatantly aware of how Baekhyun has started to mope while looking through some papers. _Close friend._ He isn’t pleased about that, Chanyeol thinks. He feels himself tumbling down a hill, heading straight for the well of despair at the bottom.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you ought to care more? Or perhaps, have some respect? We are your family and yet you never visit us. You do not even write. Mummy’s letters are left un-replied to and she is lonely, Chanyeol. She lives in that big house all on her own with only the servants to look after her.”

Chanyeol flicks away the end of his cigarette onto an ashtray, indifferent. “You could go and look after her.”

“I cannot,” Yoora replies stiffly, shuffling her weight. “Chanseok is trying to find me a husband, I have to attend parties and other social gatherings. I have already been a maiden too long.”

“Ah, what a burden that must be. Tell Mummy she can move if the house is too big.”

There is a beat of silence, Yoora wondering what she can say next before settling for, “We are all still going to Mummy’s for Christmas. You are expected to be there.” Her eyes shift to Baekhyun. “ _Alone.”_

Chanyeol rests his head against the back of the chair, muttering, “I’ll think about it, though it sounds like more of an order than an invitation.”

“We always meet at Mummy’s for Christmas, Chanyeol. It goes without saying,” she almost snaps, catching herself again at the last minute by crushing the handle of her umbrella. “Chanseok will not be pleased if you do not attend.”

“Chanseok will not be pleased no matter what I do,” he corrects solemnly. “Now, if that is all you wished to tell me, hadn’t you better be on your way? Don’t you have some shopping to? Go to one of your fancy parties to find yourself a lay?”

Chanyeol has never been very hospitable, and on this occasion, he does not even make an effort. It is no skin off his nose whether Yoora likes him or not. At the end of the day, she follows his brother around like a lost little lamb and everything he says might as well be the word of God.

Yoora turns to leave, then stops at the threshold to look over her shoulder, frills masking her jawline. “I presume that you know it is improper to smoke in front of a lady.”

Instinctively, Chanyeol fights back a grin. “I know it as well as any other gentleman,” he tells, pleased that she received his insult well and clear.

Her arm twitches, as if she wants to come storming over and throttle him around the head with her umbrella. Yet she suppresses it, just like everything else, and leaves with thunderous steps before slamming the front door closed behind her. Chanyeol hopes it hits her bustle on the way out.

Then Baekhyun gets up to follow her, adamantly tracing her footsteps towards the hallway with every intention to do the exact same. Newspapers are left askew on the carpet, forming a semi-circle hinting at where Baekhyun had once been sat surrounded by them, admiring all of Chanyeol’s greatest achievements. The room turns cold once Baekhyun has crossed the threshold, as if all life has passed on.

The nobleman violently snaps himself awake, haphazardly stumbling to put out his cigarette on his ashtray (managing to burn the tips of his right-hand fingers) so he can rush after the boy who has marched straight for the front door. At the sight of Baekhyun leaving him, he panics.

“Where do you think you are going?” Chanyeol roars, latching onto Baekhyun’s elbow with his fiery fingertips and yanking him back rather roughly. 

The boy schools himself, glaring up at Chanyeol with glassy eyes. The nobleman’s heart swoops, wailing silently inside his chest, already grieving over the potential loss of a thing so divine.

“Mister Chanyeol,” Baekhyun says after a deep breath, retaking the formality. “I don’t want to be with someone who is ashamed of me. Ashamed of his own sexuality, even. _Close friend,”_ he spits, shaking his head and looking away. “I know we haven’t put no name to anything but, _close friend?_ That just takes the piss really. Well, at least _I_ think it takes the piss. So, if you don’t mind me, I’ll be off to find myself a proper boyfriend who’ll flaunt me to all of society’s underdogs, just like I deserve. Have a Merry Christm _mpff-_ ”

What a load of bullshit, is all Chanyeol can think, and to stop it, he scoops up Baekhyun’s face in his hands and decides to kiss the nonsense from his mouth. He tries to convey everything – all his emotions, his joys and his fears, his desire for Baekhyun to stay – into the kiss, tries to prove that he is serious about this for the very first time in his life. He is a reserved person, for Christ’s sake; he does not want to share Baekhyun with his family, if he can even call them his family. They do not deserve to know him, do not even deserve to look at him, think of him. Chanyeol just wants them to leave him alone for good so that he might live his own life and do as he pleases.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Chanyeol addresses the boy with breathless pants, dread turning him into a frightful, stumbling thing. “I hardly see my family myself, and when Mummy dies all ties will be cut loose. I saw no use in introductions.” He takes a bold step forward, pressing his forehead down against the boy’s with a heavy pressure, just so he can comfort himself with the knowledge that he is real and present. “I didn’t want to scare you away either,” he breathes, eyes closed as he bares himself to Baekhyun at his most vulnerable. “I would not be able to live with myself if I said the wrong thing and made you leave me forever. Forgive me?”

“Well,” Baekhyun huffs, “that’s better. It’s just you looked so scared, like you’d been caught committin’ a crime. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret, Chanyeol.”

“You aren’t!” he insists suddenly, the volume of his voice taking them both by surprise. Hazily, he blinks open his eyes to see Baekhyun gazing up at him, and he can see his face reflected in a galaxy of stars and cosmic dust. Baekhyun is a universe of possibilities, opportunities and chances, and Chanyeol will _not_ lose him. “Please, you aren’t. Believe me. From now on you’ll be my lover and nothing else.”

“I suppose I forgive you then,” Baekhyun says at long last, a huge beam blossoming across his face, accompanied by pinking skin. “You know how to get yourself out of a sticky situation, don’t you? Still, as I said before, I forgive you. I’m goin’ easy, Park Chanyeol. I’m not normally this much of a push-over.”

Chanyeol grins at the revelation that he has Baekhyun wrapped around his finger, bending to his will and stretching to meet his expectations, and with a sly smirk, he moves to press his parted lips against Baekhyun’s left ear, breathing heavily and hotly, much on purpose. “Can I thank you, then?” he asks, voice sultry and dripping as he dips his mouth to start kissing along the slender column of Baekhyun’s exposed neck, humming.

This proclamation of loyalty to one another has Chanyeol’s confidence growing. Baekhyun getting so upset and offended over the lack of an introduction evidently shows that he cares. The boy likes him, he must, and thank God for that.

Baekhyun shudders beneath his lips, his throat convulsing with a gulp as Chanyeol runs his heated mouth over his pulse point and beyond, drinking in Baekhyun’s city scent as he relishes how soft and smooth his skin is, how warm it feels for flesh so pale. His hands grapple around his waist, and he moans when he feels again how slim it is compared to his hips and shoulders.

“ _Chanyeol._ ” Baekhyun’s whisper pierces through the salacious mist, his tentative fists pushing Chanyeol away by the pectorals. “I—I’m not ready for that yet, sorry.”

With an endeared smile, Chanyeol takes a breath of cool air as he pulls back, stroking a hand through the boy’s hair with earnest affection. “There’s no need to be sorry,” he speaks intimately into Baekhyun’s mouth, kissing him once again to the delight of the small orphan boy who throws his arms around his neck and makes sure he doesn’t leave, grinning so hard that Chanyeol finds himself kissing his teeth for the majority of the time.

It is much later in the night when Chanyeol walks Baekhyun back to the orphanage, the hour too old to hail a cab. Shrouded in darkness, they are free to stroll hand in hand, occasionally saying quiet things to one another whenever sentences come to mind. London is mostly dead, though they do pass by a few rich houses hosting parties and carriages rattling leisurely along the road beside them, transporting couples and families back to the comforts of their own homes, wherever that may be.

“This is a ruddy long walk,” Baekhyun hisses twenty minutes in, shoulders hunched up to his ears. Chanyeol laughs and gives his hand a squeeze. Despite the darkness and blatant lack of people, he is still wary about conducting such acts in a public place. Anyone could come around the next corner, someone he knows or someone who knows of him.  Rumours would spread like the plague. Homosexuality is illegal, and if Chanyeol were arrested, Baekhyun would be too. He keeps a keen eye ahead, around and behind, ready to practically throw Baekhyun’s hand away should a foe come calling.

“Be thankful you don’t have to walk it twice,” Chanyeol says back, leading them across the road –not before checking left and right.

“Neither do you,” Baekhyun retorts with a smug grin. “You could always run the way home.”

Another fifteen minutes later, they finally turn onto Fleet Street. Simultaneously, their paces slow, neither of them wanting to part so soon. They find themselves before Saint Helen’s Orphanage within the blink of an eye – a greatly unwanted occurrence. For the sake of stalling, Chanyeol enquires as to who the mysterious Saint Helen is, and Baekhyun snorts ungracefully, eloquently admitting, “Got no bloody clue.”

They stand there for a short time longer, simply holding hands and breathing the same air, before Baekhyun moves to open the front door. “Well, goodnight,” he chirps, smiling brightly with a blush dusted across his button nose. “Don’t get lost on the way home or anythin’.”

“I think I know the way well enough.” Chanyeol smiles, placing his free hand in his pocket while his other tightens around his cane. “I’ll call on for you tomorrow.”

A beat passes, and then Baekhyun jumps up to smack their lips together hurriedly, taking Chanyeol completely by surprise. With a little giggle, he skips behind the door and closes it slowly, peeking out through the gap for as long as possible with glittering eyes before it finally clicks into place. Chanyeol’s heart is enamoured, stuttering in a clamour. What on earth is this boy doing to him? Is he a sorcerer of some kind? Or a witch doctor? Chanyeol just simply cannot resist him; and, although the walk home is lonesome and quiet, the warmth in his chest chases away the sharp bite of the cold, the fangs of freezing fog kept successfully at bay.

His house, on the other hand, feels ominously empty. Life has left it, time has frozen it, and all seems rather dull. Lamenting a certain someone’s past presence, Chanyeol treads upstairs and begins to change for bed, staring out of the window at the moonlight dancing playfully between bursting stars and charming snowflakes, a fresh batch of snow beginning to fall, hiding wheel tracks as footprints disappear.

Against a starlit pillow, he dreams not so innocently about Baekhyun, his mind conjuring up the image of the little boy laid bare over a cabriole sofa, limbs draped across the cushions as nothing but strings and strings of finely polished pearls conceal his intimates from view. His dark eyes drip with want, his lips parted daringly as he pants on purpose, well aware of what a little minx he is being. His body glistens in the burning haze of the fire, pores turned to marigold crystals against flame.

Chanyeol wants to feast on it all, run his hands along the boy’s thighs and his teeth down his chest. But in the dream, he only stands by, arousal growing, as Baekhyun temptingly begins to caress himself. The orphan sighs, teeth shining, as his smouldering eyes cast down to where his fine hands wrap firmly around his own blushed length.

Naturally, Chanyeol wakes up to the sun before all the good things start, and when he looks down at himself just like Baekhyun had done in the dream, there is an offensive rod sticking up from under his sheets, creating a vulgar tent in the white linens. Then Chanyeol looks at things from another perspective and smiles smugly at how very _big_ he is. With his nightly conquest fresh in his mind, the nobleman takes a hand to it, grunting, and fists the tension away.

An hour or so later, he is ready to leave his house. The time is one O’clock, and with bed sheets changed, lunch in his stomach, and a freshly dry-cleaned frock coat hanging off his shoulders, he begins to make his way to the orphanage once more. Only two inches of snow appear to have fallen in the night, adding onto the three or so inches that were already there. Chanyeol ensures extra caution with every step he takes, flinching at the sound of ice crackling beneath his lustrous boots.

The sky is white, the air holds a chill, and all around him, the trees sparkle with a spray of frost. Children run about with rosy cheeks while workers bundled up in wool do their best to shovel the roads free of snow. Chanyeol thinks it would be high time for a painter to come out and document the scenery, for London hasn’t looked this magical in years. Or, maybe it has. Maybe Baekhyun has opened his eyes to the world around him for the first time, making him see and appreciate all the many perks rather than brood imperiously on the faults. That boy has done him a kindness.

Once the sign of the orphanage stands above, the words covered in a sheet of frost, Chanyeol uses the handle of his cane to rap on the door. Just like always, it is Miss Stott who answers, looking as fidgety as usual, yet when her bulbous eyes land on his face, she grows to be even more on edge.

“Baekhyun cannot come out today, Sir!” she blurts shrilly, looking terrified when Chanyeol adopts a hard set frown.

“And why is that?” he asks, voice fierce.

Visibly, she cowers behind the door, recoiling from his voice as if it will lash out and smack her across the face. “He’s ill today. Caught a fever in the night. Threw up his breakfast, too, so Madam Poppet said it would be best if he stayed in bed to try and sleep it off.”

The statement has Chanyeol suspended in alarm. Baekhyun is ill, in pain, and if it is something serious then it could be fatal! It would be a Christmas miracle if the orphanage can get him the medical care he needs, so money be damned, Chanyeol will seek out a doctor and pay the expenses himself if it comes boiling down to it.

“Might I see him?” He asks for an invitation, but his feet are already one step ahead of him, literally breaching the doorway and leaving him stood halfway inside the entrance hall.

“Oh, well—that might not be a good idea, Sir. You could catch something from hi—”

“Oh, what nonsense,” he dismisses her bluntly, audaciously elbowing her out of the way so that he can pass through. He debates asking her for directions, but thinks against it when he decides that he would be stalling himself and the elusive Madam Poppet – whom he has not yet met – may pop out at any moment with sharper wit and larger muscles to throw him off the premises. Using the information inadvertently given to him, Chanyeol tackles the stairs, steep, thin and crooked, and begins barging into every single bedroom he sees.

He makes no apologies and no exceptions because Baekhyun is in one of these rooms being tormented by germs and he will simply not stand for it. Health is a very fragile thing, and being in a place like this will do the boy no good; not with the cold creeping in through the cracks in the plaster, the dust layered thick on every surface in sight, and the other twenty or so children running around with snotty noses and rattling coughs, the younger ones even chewing on their fingers and draping their spit on door handles and stair bannisters.

Stooping against the hurdle of low ceilings, Chanyeol finally hunches through a doorway and scans another room. His heart rate starts to pick up when he sees the newsboy cap hooked tidily on an iron bedpost, a figure huddled in the foetus position under grey cotton blankets at the far end of the room. Chanyeol doesn’t know whether it is his mind playing tricks on him or whether the air really is just cloudy, and when he looks at the window opposite him, the one above Baekhyun’s bed, he sees that one of the glass sections has been broken, sharp shards exposed to the risk of tender fingers, allowing the heat to scurry away whenever the orphans are lucky enough to acquire it. So not only does his heart rate increase, but the muscle itself begins to ache, shattered like the glass pane he stares so forlornly at now.

There are a couple of other children in the room, two boys sat cross-legged on a bed with cards splayed between them, and they look up at him with wide curious eyes as he paces to where Baekhyun lies, his form gently shivering in his slumber. Chanyeol wants to throttle Miss Stott, Madam Poppet, and Saint Helen too, for how can children be made to live in a place like this? Even if it may be better than the workhouse, it is only by a small margin. Chanyeol would much prefer it if Baekhyun came and stayed with him.

When he crouches down at the side of the bed, he smiles faintly at the sight of Baekhyun dreaming so peacefully. With his features lax and his eyelashes occasionally fluttering, he truly looks out of this world. A fallen angel from the uppermost class of heaven, a most divine being.

He removes his left glove efficiently, flattening it over his thigh before he reaches out to press his palm against Baekhyun’s forehead. His weight is firm, chasing a fever that is not there, and his brows knit together when he realises that Baekhyun doesn’t have a temperature at all.

Just what is Madam Poppet up to? If she thinks she can tear them apart, she is significantly mistaken. He has the money, the power, and the right family name, and he will rip this orphanage from its foundations and burn it to the ground with the two ladies trapped inside if he has to. He has the police on his side as well, an entire force with the finest chief constable for years – they do love to catch themselves a money launderer or two every so often.

From beneath his hand, Baekhyun starts to stir, moaning and frowning as he shuffles against the mattress – if you can call it a mattress with how thin it is. Chanyeol breaks a smile, finally appreciating – just like Baekhyun taught him to – the fact that his little boy is not ill and is perfectly fine, rather than dwelling on the fact that this was probably Madam Poppet’s ploy to ransom the orphan for money.

Those limber hands emerge from under the covers, supple fingers rising to brush away Chanyeol’s hand from his forehead, and the nobleman’s smitten smile freezes jarringly on his face. There are angry red lines streaking across Baekhyun’s palms like a blood stain on a white sheet, the result of a brutal caning that was in every way uncalled for. Chanyeol’s heart drops like a cannonball in the ocean, sinking lower and lower as he imagines Baekhyun crying out in pain, tears in his eyes as Madam Poppet whips away at his heavenly hands.

The boy gasps in horror when his eyes finally open, and he scrambles with a harsh jerk to hide his hands. The scarlet lashes disappear from view, yet remain behind Chanyeol’s eyelids as bright as day, and immediately, he starts throwing questions.

“ _Who?”_ he rumbles, voice deep and foreboding. “Tell me who and why and how. _Now.”_

“Chan—Chanyeol, it’s really nothing-”

“ _Tell me.”_

“ _Please,_ Chanyeol, just forget about it—”

“If you do not tell me _right now,_ Baekhyun, I swear to _all_ that is holy I will—”

“ _Madam Poppet,”_ the boy whispers, terrified, words so fast they are a blur. “She saw me kiss you, and because it was meant to be a surprise she thinks I were forcin’ myself on you. Apparently, you looked angry afterwards, I dunno, but as soon as I got inside she dragged me into her office and pulled out the cane. She says homosexuals are disgustin’ things that deserve to be punished, and that hell is waitin’ for me when I die.”

Chanyeol’s face reddens as his blood begins to boil, the anger heating him up like a furnace. “That _whore!”_ he roars, startling the other two little boys in the room who sprint away as well as Baekhyun himself, though that doesn’t stop his lithe hands from reaching out to stop Chanyeol from stomping to the office. “That _stealing_ bitch!”

“It doesn’t hurt that bad, Chanyeol,” Baekhyun insists, wrestling with the nobleman to keep him crouched. Chanyeol wants to charge at the woman like a bull, and the fact that he has no idea what she looks like or where she is will _not_ stop him. “Come on, calm down. It’s nothin’ to make a scene about, come on.”

The frightful concern in Baekhyun’s starry eyes is what convinces Chanyeol to swallow his anger. He takes a moment to get his breathing back to normal, coaching himself along with thoughts of how it is good that Baekhyun was never ill and Miss Poppet isn’t trying to tear them apart, and not poisons like how Madam Poppet had clearly been spying on them and then decided to punish his little boy without just cause. But what pacifies him completely is the knowledge that she is, indeed, taking most – if not all – of the orphanage’s donations, and he can ruin her with a single letter to the police if he has to.

With tranquil breaths and a balmy heartbeat, Chanyeol exhales and rests his gaze on Baekhyun lying in bed still, his arms raised due to his hands being clutched around the lapels of his coat.

“You all better now?” Baekhyun smiles, chuckling a little afterwards to further lighten the mood.

“I suppose.”

Baekhyun bites his lip as he sits up in bed, swinging his bare feet and wriggling toes over the side before looking down at where Chanyeol still crouches. “It’s funny how angry you got,” he teases as he reaches for his socks on the floor, unrolling them so he can hoist them up around his knees. “You must really care about me, eh?”

Chanyeol sighs at Baekhyun’s nerve but doesn’t deny it. Wordlessly, he takes the remaining sock from Baekhyun’s hand and sweeps it up his shin, caressing his kneecap for a moment before dropping his hand. “I might do,” he says, giving little away as he retakes his glove from his thigh and rises to his proper posture. “Why don’t I tell you more about it over tea back at my house?”

“Hmm, alright.” Baekhyun’s answering grin is the naughtiest thing ever. So far.

Upon their arrival at Chanyeol’s townhouse, the nobleman ushers the orphan boy onto his couch and instructs him to wait there without moving. Potted water is set over the coal stove in the kitchens and aloe vera cream is collected from the bathroom medicine cupboard, Chanyeol moving swiftly about his house to complete his errands in record time. He clanks about in the kitchen for a little while, pouring the bubbling water into one of his Kensington teapots and carrying it on a tray into the lounge. Baekhyun perks up at his oncoming, shuffling to sit straight on the couch as Chanyeol lowers his tea arrangements onto the coffee table in the centre of the rug.

“What kind of tea is it?” Baekhyun asks, leaning forwards to try and catch a scent from the plume of steam funnelling from the spout.

Chanyeol grabs the aloe vera cream as he sits down beside the boy, sighing. “It’s just tea.”

“But, don’t you rich people have a million different flavours? Like… I dunno, mint and nettle or somethin’?”

With a chuckle, Chanyeol shakes his head, relaxing back against the couch and casting his loving eyes in Baekhyun’s direction. “It’s just normal tea, Baekhyun. English Breakfast. Now, please may I have your hands?”

Baekhyun hesitates, curling his palms in towards himself as if that will turn them invisible, but when he reads Chanyeol’s serious expression he relents and holds them out in offering. Just the sight of those burning rays against the quartz has Chanyeol’s nerves frazzled, yet there is nothing he can do about avenging Baekhyun now; Madam Poppet is off at the orphanage, still without a face, and Chanyeol is of better use while level-headed and tender, helping to take the pain away.

A spark lights up at their first touch, rough fingertips against irritated lines of skin. The cream soaks easily into the flesh of Baekhyun’s wounded hands, quenching the sting and diffusing the redness, Chanyeol hoping that its healing properties will reduce scarring without hindrance. Silence douses over them like a breath of fresh air, a warm burst of sunshine, and while Chanyeol’s ears strain desperately to pick up the other’s breathing, his fingertips thrive under the slick friction posed between their skin, sending tingles all the way up through his arm, and soon enough his heart is racing, pounding, threatening to rupture through his chest and run for the hills. It will take a detour, though, his heart, as it will stop off at Baekhyun’s chest and drag his along too.

The spark ceases when it bursts into a licking flame, their minds having found each other’s despite distance and obstacles, and soon enough the tea, cream, and Baekhyun’s scratched hands are pushed with ease into the subconscious. The orphan captivates every last one of Chanyeol’s thoughts, rounding them up into a pen and locking the gate for the rest of time; just like a sheep, Chanyeol would gladly follow him anywhere.

Baekhyun’s kisses are incomparable to the others Chanyeol has shared with strangers. They are passionate yet playful, greedy in an adorable way, vibrant, wild and worthy of being worshipped. He holds a fancy for teasing, Chanyeol discovers, as the nobleman’s mouth often dives in to find itself kissing against a feline smirk or chasing lips that draw back just in time to have him puckering in mid-air. The boy is a nuisance, a rascal, disrupting what should be a romantic and mellow smooching session that Chanyeol has been craving for for days, yet the boy’s zest redeems him, Chanyeol losing himself more and more in his irrevocable feelings.

To have the boy pawing at his face like a purring cat sends Chanyeol’s heart somersaulting off a cliff, and when Baekhyun even brings himself up to his knees, bending Chanyeol’s neck back so as to continue the kiss from above, Chanyeol’s sanity goes bounding off with it. His hands explore, threading around a slim waist and squeezing to test just how far in it goes before his fingertips drum down to hipbones so sleek and round most girls would be blinded by envy. When his nails dig into the plump cushioning of Baekhyun’s behind, the latter groans involuntarily and it has Chanyeol’s insides swirling with lava.

Baekhyun only pulls back when his lungs start to burn, and Chanyeol swallows his breath of “The tea,” with another searing kiss, one in which he drags the boy down on top of him so he can lie back against the couch, cushions supporting the length of his spine. He really holds no power over himself anymore; Baekhyun has seized full control over all his motor functions and Chanyeol feels as though he is a puppet, made to serve, made to give, made to treasure the most ethereal being in all of the world. He will protect him wholeheartedly until his dying day, and if he could have one prayer answered by the heavens, it would be to spend his final breath breathing into Baekhyun’s lungs, kissing him with his ultimate spell of strength and his terminating trail of thought. It seems like a rather good way to go, if he may say so himself.

Emotions are portrayed by expression, desires through fervent touches, and it is not until much, much later in the day – a new snow falling against an apricot sky – when they open their mouths to communicate via words once more. Lips are swollen, sore to touch, but it is all a delicious pain that they revel in. With time in abundance to traverse new territories and locate various erogenous zones, they have worked themselves raw, and Chanyeol now has the pleasure of knowing that if he rubs his fingers against the top of Baekhyun’s crevice, it results in an automatic moan parting his lips – and sometimes his hips will even grind forwards, eliciting a whine so innocent and pure that it has Chanyeol’s trousers feeling much too tight.

Eventually, amidst the fading evening light, they just lie against one another, heartbeats in contest to see which one can outrun the other, and Chanyeol hands roam lazily up and down the pliant stretch of Baekhyun’s back, occasionally venturing beneath his untucked shirt to feel the smouldering, plush tissue underneath.

“Did you do this type of thing at the brothel you go to?” Baekhyun starts up, face squashed into Chanyeol’s chest where his warmth is the strongest. The tip of his index finger starts to trace circles over the sheening fabric of Chanyeol’s waistcoat, white against black.

The nobleman stiffens at the referral to The Red House, for rejection is still a looming possibility that hangs over his head should he reveal the truth, a little like a noose. Then again, surely Baekhyun must know what happens in a brothel, but then that reassurance is countered by the fact that this is a very different kind of brothel. Naturally, he chokes up.

“Well, um. N-N-Not exactly,” he stammers with a flush, the arms he has slung around Baekhyun’s young frame tightening in the attempt to ground himself. Baekhyun is his anchor, but he is also the wind blowing him further out to sea.

“You take little boys, don’t you? What do they do?”

Chanyeol feels his skin crawl with embarrassment, his body cringing into the cushions of the sofa even though he cannot hope to get away from Baekhyun when the boy is lying directly on top of him. He sounds intrigued, genuinely curious, yet even with Baekhyun’s light tone and the tender way he is now caressing Chanyeol’s right pectoral through his shirt, he cannot bring himself to be comfortable speaking about what transpires within the patterned walls of the erotic parlours in The Red House.

“They—uh—well, they—they—”

“Do you kiss them?” Baekhyun asks, still speaking mainly into Chanyeol’s chest and sending delicious vibrations through the nobleman’s ribcage. He practically shivers, wanting to feel what vibrations a moan could stem.

Chanyeol clears his throat, spluttering a little when he tickles a dry patch, and he manages to stutter, “S-Sometimes.”

Baekhyun hums thoughtfully. “Why only sometimes?”

“I—I don’t know.”

It is awkward, so painfully awkward, and when Baekhyun brings his head up so they can meet one another’s eyes, it gets even worse. Chanyeol feels the room closing in around him, his darkest fantasies and most secret fetishes being forced out into the open by the little angel that has left him entranced, wandering helplessly after his footsteps even if they guide him onto the train tracks.

“What do they wear? The boys?”

Chanyeol’s mind flashes with steamy memories of amorous nights spent easing svelte bodies into glowing red linens, hearing innocent moans and pleas part different shaped lips as necks are bared to him in submission, a new, undiscovered face rolling back into the pillows each night. Baekhyun could very easily be one of those boys, inexperienced and clueless, scared yet willing, fragile and soft to touch with ample skin to mark. Chanyeol wants to paint roses against porcelain, and he is scared that Baekhyun may find him perverse for desiring such an improper thing, such a paedophilic thing. He is scared that Baekhyun will leave him, even after all they have done together.

“They wear lace. Silk. Pearls and diamonds. Sometimes they wear sheer things, sometimes they dress up in girl’s clothes, with corsets, stockings and garters. But by the end of the night, they wear nothing but the skin they were born in.”

It is strange, how he feels so jittery and bumbling inside and yet still manages to be eloquently poetic. His governess punished him well. She never helped much with the anxiety.

Baekhyun cocks his head to one side, using his free hand to straighten Chanyeol’s collar with delicate fingers, eyes watching as he does so. “Do they speak all posh too? Like the Queen? Or Prince Albert? God rest his soul. Not with the German accent though.”

“It—well, it depends on what you want, really.” Chanyeol’s throat is dry, his tongue getting stuck to the roof of his mouth whenever he tries to form a syllable, let alone a sentence. Baekhyun is pensive, as though he is considering things, and Chanyeol hopes and prays that he isn’t contemplating whether or not to leave him. He has already been shamed enough by his siblings for preferring those much younger than him, and if Baekhyun were to do the same, he would die in abstinence.

“What do _you_ want, then?” Baekhyun’s eyes are back on his in a flash and, once again, his throat constricts, tightening around his tongue. “What do you want them to speak like?”

Chanyeol visibly winces at the question, passionately hating where this conversation is heading. “I—I like them to sp-speak softly and whisper. Their voices should be light.” He turns crimson. “I like to think that they’re angels.” Only God can help him now.

Even Baekhyun turns a rosy shade of pink at that, but despite the mutual embarrassment – or, on Chanyeol’s part, humiliation – Baekhyun brings their faces closer so that he can nuzzle their noses together. The boy pecks him on the lips, soft and sweet, before breathing in a voice much like that one Chanyeol has just described, “And what did your little angels do to you?”

“Oh God, Baekhyun, please, can we not talk of this?” His face is burning, his heart has gone into overdrive and his nerves are all hyper aware of Baekhyun’s every move against him. His entire body is lathered in Baekhyun and that, paired with the conversation, is ten times too much – too much for him to cope with, too much for him to stomach, too much for him to handle.

“But I want to know,” Baekhyun whispers, begging. “Please.”

Apparently, Chanyeol has lost his marbles. They have fallen from his grasp and rolled off into the sewers, never to be seen again, and he finds himself saying, “I’ll take you there, then.”

That seems to catch Baekhyun off guard. His half-mast eyes widen to full size and his head recoils, eyes staring down into Chanyeol’s in something that can only be identified as shock. He’s going to run away, Chanyeol thinks, he’s going to run away and tell everyone about me – this is all Madam Poppet’s great plan! But instead, the boy merely asks, “Is it open at this time?” and Chanyeol finds himself so deliriously relieved that he starts laughing, exclaiming, “It’s a brothel! Of course is it!”

He hugs Baekhyun close, revelling in his tinkling laughter before they get up to ready themselves.

On the way there, Chanyeol chants positive thoughts through his mind like an endless mantra, conjuring up cheesy phrases like, “ _Baekhyun wants to do this!”_ and “ _He supports you!”_ It helps a little, but what really boosts his confidence is the bounce in Baekhyun’s step as he joyously skips beside him. The hour is late and the sky is dark, and sometimes they hold each other’s hands until they see a stranger approaching; Chanyeol gets funny looks anyway, just because Baekhyun looks rather abnormal at his side, or as everyone else would call it, ’poor’.

It is an unjust stereotype that all poor people are hungry beggars out to steal your money, one that leaves most either dying on the streets or being run six feet under in the workhouse because those who have all the wealth immediately assume the worst in them. In the dog eat dog world that is London, a microcosm for the rest of the planet’s developing countries, people favour their own success over generosity, kindness and sympathy, and will only give something if they know they will be receiving something in return. Chanyeol is glad to be the anomaly, a single flower grown up through the cracks in the concrete.

With his townhouse over half of the journey behind him, Chanyeol starts to question his life choices. What if Baekhyun is doing this just to be polite? Or to ridicule him later on? What if the boy is following Madam Poppet’s orders to lure him into a dark alleyway and murder him for all his money? He grabs onto Baekhyun’s hand for support as he continues to lead the way, albeit hesitantly, and the boy squeezes back, looking rather pleased with the brazen display of public affection. A long, cool breath whistles down his windpipe when he breathes in, and Chanyeol manages to convince himself that he’ll see the sunrise tomorrow.

The Red House is a discreet establishment on the route to Kensington, a three-story building on the corner of a crossroad disguised as a smoking lounge for men to gather over a glass of brandy and a deck of cards. It is a converted set of three townhouses, with the walls knocked down in between them, and the entrance lies on the corner as an unsuspecting front door. There is a sign above it, declaring the words, “THE BLOOMSBURY LOUNGE” with the inscription, “MALE MEMBERSHIP OWNERS ONLY” underneath, painted in gold against a greying black.

The street is empty at this time of night, gas lamps casting pools of light against the sparkling snow, the ghosts of people who have walked before uncovered by the shadows of their footprints. It is a domestic area of London, the last place you would expect to find a homosexual brothel, yet that is why Chanyeol supposes the setup is so inherently clever.

He knows little about the history of the business, only that is has been open since the reign of King George the Third around the same time that he started to go mad, and was done so by a man named Edward Bloomsbury who sold the brothel and its one sister outlet to company owner Eric Sandleford, who apparently oversees more establishments like these in all major southern cities, leaving Birmingham rather parched but Brighton fully quenched. Chanyeol has never seen this elusive Mr Sandleford, despite being one of The Red House’s most frequent and wealthy patrons, and instead recognises Mr Kim as the face of the business, the man in the lobby who does the meetings and greetings and – after payment – the bookings. His role is strictly managerial, though Chanyeol has heard of how he likes to enjoy the little girls from time to time; he must make a pretty penny with how much he charges for even a single session.

“This is the place?” Baekhyun asks shrewdly, pulling a face. “Doesn’t look much like a brothel to me.”

Chanyeol huffs a singular laugh. “That’s the idea.”

With brisk steps, he leads them towards the unassuming property, reaching for the door handle and letting them inside a truly convincing smoking lounge. The lights are dimmed, candles burning low on the mantel of a glowing fireplace, and when he shuts the door behind them, he tells Baekhyun that the door is always left open during hours of business.

They are fully encased in wood, with the walls, floor and ceiling consisting of nothing but mahogany. There are bookcases and shelves gathering dust along the perimeter of the room, and there is an abundance of smoking chairs, all wine red and leather with elegant, trimmed legs. Tables are scattered with ashtrays, oil lamps and cards, even poker chips in the corners, and faded rugs decorate the bare wooden floor, accentuating the sheer wealth of the room. Amongst the nubuck leather, the first edition novels and the antique hand-painted playing cards, Baekhyun sticks out like a sore thumb; Chanyeol looks right at home.

With a glance over his shoulder, the nobleman reads the insecurity in Baekhyun’s expression and seeks to soothe it by offering out his hand, the boy taking it immediately and clinging onto it as if he’s afraid Chanyeol will leave him behind to wait outside.

“This can’t be it, right?” the orphan asks, gulping before looking up at Chanyeol as if searching for reassurance. Chanyeol wants to tell him that nothing – not jewels, fine fabrics, nor even expensive décor – could outshine him, but alas, he settles for a smile instead, deciding that actions speak louder than words.

“It’s through here,” he tells the boy, leading him by the hand to one of the wall panels opposite them and knocking on with the handle of his walking stick. Baekhyun’s palm is sticky against his own, their skin glueing together, yet Chanyeol is too besotted with the boy to be disgusted by it.

There is a long moment of silence, in which Baekhyun asks, “Are you sure you have the right bit of wall here?” but eventually, after a minute and a half or so, the wall swings back and there stands Mr Kim, grinning like a Cheshire cat and crying out Chanyeol’s name as if he has been resurrected from the dead and not come back from a mere few weeks of absence. The man is all high spirits with joyous shouting and overzealous pats – _smacks –_ on the back, not even letting Baekhyun remain unscathed.

“I have just the boy for you tonight, Mr Park!” Mr Kim beams brightly as he leads them into a huge circular lounge. All is red and black, mirrors and doors, and there is a giant crystal chandelier hanging down from the heights in the centre of an exuberant and gothic ceiling rose. The chesterfield sofas are a snowy velvet, dressed in plump cushions of midnight and throws of currant, while raven lace designs sachet down blood red walls, meeting the varnished walnut skirting boards at the top and bottom, doors of the same consecutively appear against the panelling.

There is a desk to the right, guarding a bookcase full of framed photographs, and there are a curved set of stairs to the right leading up to higher floors, protected by the twisted railings that elegantly support the ascension. Patrons mill about the room, receiving complimentary drinks from the gleaming curvilinear bar in the centre of the room tended to by a man in a crisp white shirt, sleek black waistcoat and neatly gelled moustache. When not shaking drinks, he wipes down the sides and washes the glasses in the basin behind him, then moving on to touch up the Christmas garland hanging along the front. The chandelier above makes light dance on the bars metal surfaces and glitzy shelves, stocked full of the world’s finest liquors. There are also a few boys and girls escorting their clients, dressed sensually in things that leave little to the imagination, and Chanyeol casts a wary glance at Baekhyun who has turned bright red. One girl is dressed in nothing but her underwear, a deliberate baby pink colour to reel in those who prefer the innocent ones. She can hardly be innocent, though, working here and prowling around without a care in the world that most of her bits are on display.

“He’s called Charlie,” Mr Kim goes on, speaking cheerily of the boy who he claims is perfect for Chanyeol and his needs. But Chanyeol has someone else’s needs in mind, and his eyes flicker over to Baekhyun to find him engrossed in one of the boys in the room, dressed only in a pair of girls’ bloomers. “A little blonde boy with pink skin—”

“Mr Kim,” Chanyeol calls out, butting in, “forgive me for the interruption, but I would like a boy of my own recommendation tonight.”

The man is surprised, nothing more, the sting of the silencing washed away by the confirmation that Chanyeol _is_ making a purchase tonight. He smiles joyously from behind the reception desk that he has placed himself behind, coming to rest his palms on the half wall dividing it from the remainder of the room, and he says, “Well then, who would you like? Pippin and George are already tied up, but the others are free.”

Chanyeol ignores the poorly-tasted innuendo of ‘tied up’ with difficulty, recalling a time when he had had Pippin whimpering and wriggling spread eagle on the mattress at his mercy. “Robin, please,” he says.

“Ah, a fine choice! He’ll be delighted to know you have asked for him again. The first boy to serve you twice!”

Chanyeol flashes a smile at the man as he busies himself readying his order, and he turns to Baekhyun to offer him a comforting gaze.

“This place is really fancy,” Baekhyun whispers anxiously, looking around as if he is a mouse in a room full of cats. “I feel like I’m gonna break somethin’ that I can’t even afford to look at.”

“Hush now,” the nobleman chuckles, using their entwined hands to pull Baekhyun a little closer, and he looks down upon him with a smitten smile. “You’re with me. You can afford to look at everything.” He then leans down to speak directly into the boy’s ear, breathing hotly over the shell and pecking the lobe. “And buy everything, too.”

Baekhyun blushes, stammering over butchered syllables as he opens his mouth to refute, but before he can voice what he seems so insistent on saying, Mr Kim has re-emerged from his office with a satisfied smile. “Room twenty-one, then, Mr Park. Enjoy your evening and I’ll see you anon.”

Chanyeol can feel his heart pounding as he guides Baekhyun closer and closer to the room where Robin will join them, a young ginger boy who served him last time he came here. He should be more experienced by now, Chanyeol reckons, and humble enough to service Baekhyun without scaring him. Upon what was their first, and supposed to be only, session together, Robin was on the job for a mere two weeks after turning eighteen in late October, having served only three clients before him. He was adequate for what Chanyeol wanted, so he saw no need to complain about the boy’s generally frightened disposition.

After tackling the stairs, they emerge on a landing much like the lobby downstairs. Chanyeol guides Baekhyun to the first door on the left, opening it and allowing him to head in first. When Chanyeol looks over the top of the orphan’s newsboy cap, he sees that the room has been fully embellished with festive decorations, and seeing Baekhyun look around in awe at the seven foot Christmas tree, garlands and wreaths, makes Chanyeol swell with a strange type of pride; on the one hand, he is glad that he can present Baekhyun with this new way of living, one where money is not an issue and respect is freely given to any man with a top hat, yet it is strange because he is showing that lifestyle in the form of a brothel and he isn’t really sure how he feels about that.

“This place is… _expensive,”_ Baekhyun gasps, swiping the cap off his head and clutching it to his chest while he spins around on the spot, admiring all the decorations and holly motifs carried out through the room.

The space is dressed, once again, in red and black, a four-poster bed in the centre of the far wall with sheer drapes and plaits of obsidian beads, not a single cushion or trimming left without fringes and tassels, and there are wall gas lamps styled in the fashion of lotus plants, their glass tinted indigo to shed muted rays throughout the room, a war of gold and purple. The ceiling rose is even more extravagant, coated in ink with every edge lined in dark glitter, a long wreath garland ornamented with China angels and glass baubles strung up around its circumference, and the mirror above the fireplace on the wall opposite the door is shrouded in holly, silver-painted pinecones and small model birds, robins and blue tits and goldfinches. The Christmas tree to the left is supported by a wide array of different coloured presents secured in exorbitant boxes and bows – some even appearing to be encrusted with real gems – its branches healthily stacked with huge vase-like decorations, small nutcracker figurines and edible candy canes, and, thankfully, no lit candles.

“How much is this costin’?”

“A fair amount,” Chanyeol responds, hanging up his hat, coat and slotting his cane into the umbrella stand by the door. “It is no skin off my nose, though. People also pay handsomely for my mind.”

Baekhyun snorts again, a tendency of his, before coming across to sling his cap over a hook as well as he looks up at Chanyeol with a challenging look. “You can’t even form a proper sentence when you’re under pressure, I struggle to imagine how your mind could be much better.”

“Why you _little—”_

The door opens, revealing the small ginger bird that is Robin, an all rosy complexion, fiery orange hair and subtly freckled skin. Silence washes over the couple as Robin hesitantly steps inside, unsure of how to proceed at the sight of two men stood by the coat stand rather than one man slouched across the sofa.

Baekhyun stares as if he’s at the zoo, gaping and goggling at the new attraction that has gifted itself into his vicinity. His steps are slow as he approaches, as if worried he’s going to scare the boy off if he makes any sudden movements, and he reaches out with a minutely trembling hand to trace his fingertips across the lace on Robin’s shoulder.

“So this is what you meant by lace,” the orphan murmurs, eyes roaming Robin’s body shamelessly as he takes in the sheer, lace shirt and matching shorts. His eyes bulge when he sees a little too much between the boy’s legs, but he regains his composure almost instantly. “So this is… this is what you like?” Baekhyun turns to him, making Chanyeol shrivel inside a little at such blunt and private question in front of someone no better than a stranger. Yes, Chanyeol might have bedded him before, made him cry and whimper and formulate all the little noises in between, but he knows nothing about the boy other than his name and what his voice sounds like.

He coughs, awkward. “Why don’t you sit down? Robin, come here.”

In the low light of the room, a sultry ambience created by the combined glow of gas lamps and candles, Baekhyun and Robin obediently do as they are asked, the brunette taking a seat on the velvet couch and the ginger approaching Chanyeol, blinking up at him with gloriously green eyes. Images of a life prior to Baekhyun flutter across Chanyeol’s mind like the beating of bird wings, moving pictures of Robin’s pixie smile and his squinted eyes playing like consecutive photographs across his sight as an effigy for all those that have gone before.

The royal hue of the air casts a frivolous haze, birthing the illusion that all is a dream and sins are not really taking place, not being committed. Robin does as Chanyeol instructs him, moving about the room to blow out every two candles and lower the intensity of the gas lamps, further diffusing the room into a misty darkness that has Chanyeol’s matches flickering stark against his face as he lights a cigarette. He stands at the side of the room, sucking in smoke to calm himself, as his eyes shift between Robin’s lacy figure and Baekhyun’s curious gaze. Chanyeol’s other instructions to the little boy echo in his mind, getting louder and more suffocating as the little ginger closes the space between himself and the orphan boy.

Chanyeol crosses his arms, cigarette hovering before his lips as he breathes in deeply for a fresh breath of air in between the gas. The room is stuffy, clouded and dim, the perfect setting for crimes to take place in the dead of night, yet Baekhyun’s face is as luminous as the moon, his twinkling black eyes watching in surprise as Robin lowers alluringly to his knees before him. The nobleman draws in smoke, hawk-like stare bewitched by the way those slender, strawberry hands start to run up and down his orphan’s thighs, easing them apart ever so gently under a spell of intense, direct eye contact. Baekhyun’s face is no longer white, but red. His eyes shine like the sun, hot and fiery, enough to warp metal and burn coal.

Robin leans down to kiss up along Baekhyun’s shorts, pink lips puckering out against the rough and weathered cotton, while his hands rest against the orphan’s knees, keeping them unabashedly spread open so that he has space enough to fit between. Chanyeol shifts his weight onto his other foot, finding arousal melting his gut and dripping down to his groin like hot wax. This is what the little boys do to him, and to see it happening to Baekhyun makes it seem like his deepest and darkest desires are finally coming true.

At the sound of his name, Chanyeol almost stumbles over his own feet in his haste to reach Baekhyun, then calmly sitting down beside him as young Robin undoes the button of his short to reveals the orphan’s undergarments, soft, pale flesh above the band now on view for the both of them to feast on. Baekhyun turns to look at him with a worried expression, fear, embarrassment and insecurity causing trepidation to swell in his heart, so to soothe him, the nobleman gently strokes a hand through his coffee brown hair, hushing him with a gentle smile as if to say “I am here and all will be well.”

Baekhyun doesn’t look when he feels the fingers clamping around him, but he does acknowledge it with a gasp. He stares into Chanyeol’s eyes, searching and foraging for something that Chanyeol hopes he has, and with a soft smile, the latter comes forward to peck the orphan’s lips ever so lightly, the touch of a feather against fingertips.

“Let me hear you,” Chanyeol breathes when he notices Baekhyun sealing his mouth closed in defiance, withholding enticing moans and bewitching breaths, and upon his command, the orphan immediately opens his mouth to start panting.

“Chanyeol,” he gasps, never ripping their eyes away even as Robin begins to kiss and lick the head of his swelling member. “Is this—” he pauses for breath, torso rising and falling with great blusters of wind as he starts to tremble, “Is this what they do?”

Chanyeol nods, fondly tucking a strand of hair behind Baekhyun’s ear. “Yes.” He feels as though he is floating in a pool of hot, steaming water, sweat gathering under his collar, in the creases of his palms and, naturally, between his legs. A flush creeps up over his chest and neck, rising to even the tips of his ears, and Chanyeol feels himself being sucked under at the beauteous, carnal hunger oozing from Baekhyun’s hedonistic gaze. He begins to drown around about the time when Baekhyun abruptly swoops forward to claim his lips in a mash of teeth and tongue, tissue getting clipped against incisors for a moment before Chanyeol straightens things out and sucks the orphan’s tongue into his mouth, cigarette slipping from between his fingers as he moves to take the boy’s face into his hands and hold it there while Robin, the sweet little ginger bird, takes more of Baekhyun into his mouth, down to the pelvic bone.

Seeing Baekhyun come undone for the first time is one of those things Chanyeol is sure he will never, ever forget. From the way his nose scrunched up to the deliciously hot moans he released, all was a prurient show of euphoria and pleasure, one that Chanyeol wants so badly to replicate over and over again to the divine being before him. Seeing Baekhyun writhe, twist and shudder, feeling the fanning of his heated breaths and buzzing off his whimpers and groans, had Chanyeol growing so agonisingly hard in his trousers, and once Robin had finished wiping Baekhyun clean, he shuffled along the floor on grazed, raw knees to service Chanyeol as well.

That is all they do before they leave, Baekhyun already boneless and Chanyeol no longer trusting his self-restraint now that he has seen the faces Baekhyun can pull, heard the sounds he can form. He cannot wait to have him for himself, that is for certain.

Mr Kim greets them boldly downstairs, asking if everything went well, and Chanyeol pays him hurriedly before they make to leave, hats on and coats buttoned. The nobleman knows that Baekhyun is just thinking, that he shouldn’t be worried, but the orphan’s silence still troubles him somewhat. All he can hear is the crunching of snow beneath their feet and the snuffles of his own nose when he inhales the chill, and he is too afraid of even taking Baekhyun’s hand for fear of the boy pushing him away. Damn his anxiety for creeping up on him now, of all times.

About halfway through their journey back to the orphanage, though, Baekhyun comes to hug up against his side, wrapping Chanyeol’s left arm in both of his and matching their steps completely, even if his legs are much shorter.

“Chanyeol,” he says, breath staining the air, “one day, I’ll give you all of those things, if you still want them. I mean, I want to—I want to be like them – the boys. I want to feel beautiful like that.”

The confession renders the nobleman speechless, but he still smiles like a fool – a lovesick fool – and grins wildly at the stars.

“Like, I know I’ve already got a beautiful face, I just want the clothes to match.”

The little shit.

“And I’m not eighteen yet, and you have to be eighteen for consent and everythin’, but I honestly don’t think I can wait that long. For us. It’s not like I’d be unwillin’ anyway, you make me crazy. Bat shit crazy.”

‘Crazy’ is an understatement for the opposite side of things, yet Chanyeol’s poor, muddled mind, suffering from the tropes of infatuation, cannot come up with a better alternative. When he finally regains his voice some time later, and a rather unsteady one at that, he chuckles aloud, garnering Baekhyun’s sole, undivided attention, and says, “Well, I’m glad it’s not just me feeling that way.”

The little orphan dissolves into laughter, tugging on his arm as tears of delight streak down his cheeks and he guides Chanyeol’s face down for a searing kiss, their lips cold and dry under the blanket of stars, sticking together with saliva as glue. For once, Chanyeol doesn’t care if someone comes around the corner and sees them together. Baekhyun is his, and _damn_ is he proud of it.

**❅**

A couple of days later, Chanyeol heads to Green Park near Buckingham Palace to see Baekhyun and the other orphans singing their set of Christmas carols once again. The trees are bare but not alone, and their roots hide beneath a thick blanket of snow in one of natures deadliest traps. As Chanyeol treads the ground, he uses his walking cane like the blind and maps out the terrain in front of him, his six-foot stature meaning that he has a long way to fall if he should ever lose his footing. Small dew drops of melting frost run along overhanging branches, tracing the twigs until the tip before they fall like glass beads against Chanyeol’s shoulders. His ears are aching with the cold, his nose red and runny, yet he persists, coming to a stop beside a tree that barricades the wind where he has a good view of Baekhyun’s face as the boy stares down at the carol book in his hands.

While the angel diligently sings ‘Away in a Manger’, Chanyeol wonders why he has a book when he cannot read, but supposes that, one) there may be music for him to read in it, and two) it is a public display, to show passers-by that these children are not lost causes, for they can read and presumably write too, _can_ have bright futures so long as you invest. Such deception can only be the work of Madam Poppet, who Chanyeol guesses is the woman stood on the right side of the group, Miss Stott flanking the left.

Madam Poppet is dressed in violet and cream, an outrageously expensive hat perched atop her carefully dictated hairdo, adorned with the petals and stigma of fake roses to show off her undesirable profligate ways. In her hand is a carol book and a white parasol with pink embroidered tulips. The number of rings on her fingers is enough to sink a ship. It makes sense, really, as Chanyeol connects all the dots in his mind: the full purse, the empty orphanage fund, the mysterious death of her potential husband in the night who left all he had to her in his will. It looks like she has rather enjoyed spending her money under the pretence of conducting charity, of doing whoever-the-hell-she-is Saint Helen’s good work. Though, perhaps Saint Helen had been a money launderer too, in which case Chanyeol will let Poppet off the hook for that minor tragedy.

The set of songs ends ten minutes later with ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ and they all disperse into the collected crowd to receive donations in their upturned hats, just like last time. To Chanyeol’s surprise and inward glee, Madam Poppet comes sauntering towards him with a little purse in her hands, folds open and ready to welcome ‘small’ portions of change.

“Good day, fine sir,” she smiles, tipping her hat. “Did you enjoy our carol show?”

Chanyeol nods with a smile, thinking back to the names mentioned in the newspaper. “Matilda Poppet, is it?” he asks, trying to work out whether she recognises who he is or not. From what he knows, she has only seen him from an upstairs window when she was spying on him and Baekhyun, which was what lead to the orphan getting wrongly caned across the hands even though he was innocent of the accusations pressed against him, by no one other than the two-faced bitch standing before Chanyeol now.

“The one and only!” she flourishes, curtseying as she swells under the fame. “Are you going to make a donation, sir? It would really better the lives of our children at Saint Helen’s if you do. These winter months are getting terribly colder as the years go on.”

He laughs, being polite. “Well, I would love to, madam, but I’m afraid I have no money on me. And even if I did, I wouldn’t make a donation to someone who canes innocent children, but I am sure we could come to some sort of compromise.”

Madam Poppet’s whole act drops within an instant, façade crumbling like the dust of her spent empire, and she stares at Chanyeol, utterly repulsed, without a single thought that she should probably try and appear less guilty. What a grave mistake for someone so cunning to make, Chanyeol muses.

“So that is who you are,” she sneers, pulling an unladylike face and closing the distance between them so that no one else will see her true self-prevailing. “You mean to say that Baekhyun was innocent for doing such a thing? Then I suppose you are a _disgusting_ homosexual too, what a _freak—_ ”

“Yes, that is all well and good, madam, but what about yourself?” Chanyeol turns the tables with a steady grin, catching sight of Baekhyun just over the small woman’s shoulder and seeing his little orphan laughing with a couple of the other children. His heart warms at the echo of his tinkling giggles, and then he turns back to the matter at hand with newfound courage. “These donations are going directly into your own purse, are they not? So I really do not see how any money I give – or anyone else, for that matter – would benefit the children in any way. Unless you let them play dress up in all your fine hats and clothes – which would be a very gay thing to let the boys do, mind you. You should not discredit me, madam, for just because I am a homosexual does not also mean that I am thick in the head; there is neither a correlation nor causation to prove that all gays are idiots.”

Her face screws up in a laughable shade of plum as her hands fist around the handle of her dainty little parasol, a ridiculously inappropriate accessory for gusty weather without a single trace of the sun. She is very dolled up for an insignificant visit to the park, so perhaps she is on the hunt for a new husband with a lot of money in the bank.

“Are you aware that I am a private investigator? I work very closely with the police who would be more than happy to take you in for questioning. I’m sure once we do a little more mutual digging we will pull up even more things on you that will have the husband you killed for money turning in his grave.”

The plum drains away, leaving a stale, blank canvas, and the shock is uncanny. There it is, Chanyeol muses with a smirk, the unspoken confession. It’s such fun, making people realise they’ve lost.

“H-H-How did you—How did you _know?!”_ she whisper-shouts, frantic, horrified, and all synonyms in between. Her eyes skit about in a haphazard scan of the area before she trains her crazed gaze back on him. “I mean—H- _How?!”_

This is when Chanyeol laughs, roaring throughout the park with his hand on his chest and making several people look their way with interest. “Oh, madam,” he jeers, leaning over her slightly, “it was only an assumption, but I thank you kindly for your verbal confession, I’m sure the chief constable will be delighted to hear it. Did you smother poor Jack with a pillow? Or did you strangle him, I wonder?”

She grumbles something that sounds a little like, “ _The cheating bastard deserved it,”_ before she looks at him and snaps, “ _Fine._ I won’t report on you if you do not report on me.”

It all seems remarkably like school children behaviour, but a pact is still a pact and this one benefits them both – with an added minimal chance of betrayal. They shake hands on it, exchange forced pleasantries, and then Chanyeol announces that he will be taking Baekhyun home for the night, no exceptions.

“I saw you and Madam Poppet talking, Chanyeol,” Baekhyun says bluntly once they are out of earshot of the rest of the orphans. “I told you not to make a scene, didn’t I? What exactly did you say to make her look so scared?”

Chanyeol sighs, contemplating the clouds. “I just told her what she already knows, really,” he says in a riddle. “I stated the facts, and she was scared that I knew them.”

Baekhyun scowls. “Right, now tell me what that means in English; I don’t speak like posh people poetry or whatever.”

With a boisterous laugh, Chanyeol slings his arm over the boy’s shoulder and reels him into his side, the act platonic enough to not rouse suspicion from the crowds around them. “I couldn’t possibly tell you,” he says with a mock accent, one even more well-spoken than his own. “We made a pact, you see: ‘I won’t tell if you won’t’, so I’m afraid that my lips are sealed.”

“You’re no fun,” Baekhyun scoffs, shoving him away none-so kindly and making the nobleman guffaw, his crazed smile scaring away the passing children who cower behind their mothers. It is of no importance to Chanyeol, however, because Baekhyun is laughing along with him, just as deluded as he is while their marbles voluntarily scatter.

The stroll back to Chanyeol’s townhouse is laden with jokes and giggles, random shouts to the clouds and dancing footprints in the snow. Baekhyun sings songs while Chanyeol claps the beat, the nobleman elated from something as simple as the orphan’s divine voice.

When they finally arrive at their destination, their faces burn and their feet throb from thawing so soon in the heat of Chanyeol’s hallway. After they have hung up their hats and coats, the nobleman suggests that they bring the linens down from his bedroom and get a fire going in the lounge. They can snuggle up for the evening, telling stories and exchanging doting touches.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Baekhyun rubs his palms together, racing off up the carpeted stairs with Chanyeol in tow. The first floor is only a bedroom, bathroom and an office, while the second floor above contains guest rooms, storage space, another water closet and the entrance to the loft. Chanyeol rarely ever ventures up there unless he needs something from the rafters, and it doesn’t get cleaned unless he has guests coming over and hires a few members of staff. By the time he has reached the top of the first staircase, Baekhyun is already bounding up the other, his excited footsteps punctuated by the loud thuds of his boots on the carpet, and Chanyeol smiles at the ceiling as he hears the doors opening and closing on the second landing, Baekhyun crying out, “ _Holy Hell! How do you have so much stuff?_ ” The nobleman only smiles again, chest expanding with a bubble of happiness and pride.

Eventually, after Baekhyun has had a proper good nosy around, he returns to the first-floor landing with his hair all ruffled. “You’ve got some impressive stuff up there, Chanyeol,” he beams, “and you even have a piano! Why’d you never tell me, eh?” Before Chanyeol can answer him, Baekhyun is already well on his way to inspecting the first floor rooms as well, asking, “Which one’s your bedroom, then?” as he heads mistakenly into the bathroom.

Apparently, Baekhyun has never seen a bathroom before, and when he dizzies himself by spinning on the spot, Chanyeol has to take hold of him so that he doesn’t fall over. “What is this place?” the boy gasps in awe, staring at the rich honey oak panelling and the hand painted porcelain tiles, all with a different common garden bird illustrated on them straight from the north’s pottery factories. The toilet is tucked away in its own private stall by the door, and aside from the built in iron tub bath along the wall by the window with the curtains drawn, there is little else occupying the space. There is a changing screen folded up in the corner, large floor cabinets lined up against the wall containing medicines, jugs and towels, razors and scissors, and even suitable equipment for polishing shoes – there is a small stool for that as well, tucked in at the side. Along the wall above the bath is a long mirror, and beneath that there is a rack holding many different scented soaps, but other than all the cosmetic and visual things, there is nothing much more; no running water, no flushing toilet, not even a sink – just a basin with a jug of stagnant water beside it. Still, despite the fact that there are so many vital fundamentals missing from his bathroom, Baekhyun is still enamoured.

Chanyeol watches as the orphan approaches the bath, sitting down on its edge and peering down into it as if expecting to see some great gift from God inside. Then he looks over his shoulder with a mischievous grin and asks, “Can I have a bath, please?”

Naturally, Chanyeol says yes. “On one condition,” he bargains, Baekhyun looking intent as he listens in closely, leaning towards his words. “I get to wash you.”

The boy laughs, blushing, looking so wonderfully happy. “Then this is a win-win situation, isn’t it?”

“And you have to help me with at least half of the water.”

“ _God’s sake.”_

For the first twenty minutes, the two slave away boiling pots of water over the coal oven in the kitchen, watching until they are at a bubble before lumbering them upstairs with thick clothes for mitts to save their hands. Baekhyun moans the whole time, complaining about the steam, complaining about the weight and complaining about the stairs; Chanyeol is only too happy to remind him of who it was that wanted the bath in the first place. Successfully enough, with only minor spillages and thankfully no scalds, together they fill half the bath with steaming hot water, and Chanyeol tells Baekhyun to start getting ready while he focuses on filling the tub up at least another two fifths. He breaks out in a sweat and is sure he has never gone up and down the stairs so much in all his time living here, but when he walks into the bathroom with his final jug of burning water, the slate listing his grievances is immediately wiped clean.

Baekhyun has wrapped a towel around his waist, yes, but there is still so much skin on show. Surprisingly broad shoulders greet Chanyeol when he crosses the threshold, his steps coming to a halt as he takes in the gentle ridges of Baekhyun’s spine, his pointed shoulder blades that look like an angel’s wings and, once he has turned around to flash a cheeky smile at him, a pair of peachy nipples, hardened to form small peaks.

“Cat got your tongue, Chanyeol?” he teases irritably, and Chanyeol glares at him before making to pour the rest of the water down into the tub, the liquid colliding noisily with what has already settled.

“It’ll be too hot for a few minutes, so we’ll have to wait for it to cool down first,” the nobleman announces, putting the jug down on the floor and draping the cloth over it, save either of them walking into its searing metal frame by accident.

Baekhyun grins, biting his lip in an extremely provocative way that proves he knows exactly what he’s doing. He hums, tapping his chin in feigned thought as he dawdles towards Chanyeol at a frustratingly slow pace, ankles crossing with each step. “What ever will we do to pass the time?” he asks airily, standing just before the nobleman and smoothing his hands up his firm chest before hooking his fingers over his shoulders, a naughty glint in his eyes that shows true enough that he is really up to no good – and never has been.

They pass the time by kissing each other’s breath away, tongues hot and furtive as they swap saliva and suck on pretty much everything, hands exploring all they can reach like a pig at a buffet and Baekhyun’s towel ends up in a heap around his ankles. Chanyeol also finds himself moderately stripped, with his waistcoat disbanded and his Y-back braces undone, hanging uselessly around his hips instead. Once he has told a swollen-mouthed Baekhyun that the water is probably cool enough, he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as well to save it from soaking in the water.

“Do you not have a bath at the orphanage?” he wonders as he guides Baekhyun to stand on the bathmat and sit down, his hands nestled firmly under his arms.

The boy groans orgasmically at the caress of hot water, and he practically purrs the words: “Not like _this_.” It doesn’t take him long to get acquainted with the bath, and soon he is slouched in it, arms and legs out with his head tipped back against the side while Chanyeol works the bar of lavender soap around his shoulders, knelt on the floor at the side. He imagines that the orphanage has little more than a metal tub in a dusty corner, filled every fortnight with new pails of water for all the children to share. Not only is that detrimental to a person’s health, but it is far below what Baekhyun deserves. Seeing him looking so serene, so at peace, makes Chanyeol wonder whether he has even experienced the joys of hot water at all.

“ _God,”_ the boy curses, “I could get used to this.”

Chanyeol grins, stomach flipping at the thought of Baekhyun getting used to _more_ than just this. Under his own jurisdiction, Chanyeol shall decree that the boy may have baths whenever he likes, and thus, everything else too. He can come over for dinner, decorate his house with his beaming smiles, and Chanyeol’s insides turn to mush when he imagines them living together, co-existing so effortlessly, so happily, as if they were made for each other.

“You would have to get used to heating up all the water as well, though,” Chanyeol interjects, grinning.

“ _Pshh,”_ Baekhyun hisses, “poppycock.” He opens his eyes to side-glace Chanyeol. “That’s what you’re for.”

The nobleman childishly retaliates by flicking water in Baekhyun’s face, and the little orphan cackles with laughter at a deep, resonating, sex-dripping pitch. Chanyeol cuts the laugh short, swallowing it whole, just as his hand loses the soap to the water’s surface and delves deep into the depths, taking hold of what lies between Baekhyun’s legs instead. Just what _has_ this boy done to him? He is beginning to think with his cock, and although that is not necessarily a bad thing, it’s not exactly a good thing either – he has stamina for days.

Baekhyun keens into his mouth, falling against the side of the bath and slipping off the bathmat, sending a shockwave of water sloshing from left to right and up over the edges, rushing like a charging cavalry. The rebound pours over Chanyeol’s front and drenches him from the ribs down, the white pigment of his shirt turning transparent and indecently displaying the flesh underneath. He doesn’t care, though, because the length wrapped securely in his fingers is starting to twitch to hardness and Baekhyun is tangling his wet digits into the ebony tendrils of his hair, tugging him closer to the point where the edge of the bath is burrowing a valley into his ribcage. Not that he is bothered by it, of course; cutting off his circulation is the last thing on his mind because Baekhyun is making so many deliciously alluring noises that he is too aroused to think of anything else.

With a large pant, Baekhyun resurfaces and stares into Chanyeol’s eyes with a burning passion, breathing through spit-soaked lips that move numbly to form the words: “I’m ready. _Fuck,_ Chanyeol. I am so ready.”

Baekhyun doesn’t have to say anything more, really, because after that Chanyeol all but throws the poor boy over his right shoulder and manoeuvres him like a sack of potatoes to his bedroom, the orphan hooting with laughter all the way and crying out for Chanyeol to stop smacking his behind. But it is a very nice behind, so Chanyeol persists, watching the fat ripple whenever his fingers come down in a half-hearted slap.

Baekhyun bounces when he falls against the mattress, three times before he settles completely and Chanyeol is draping himself over the top of his body, starting his kisses from Baekhyun’s sharp jaw and working them down his neck towards his prominent collar bones. Everything the nobleman does is fluid, tried and tested, and Baekhyun can only lie there at the mercy of the other man’s mouth as his arousal stiffens even more between his legs, flushing an angry purple.

“Take your shirt off,” Baekhyun whispers, fingers latching hurriedly onto Chanyeol’s buttons and fighting to get them undone as quick as possible, failing to do so with his flailing co-ordination, all wit and intelligence out the window and over the hills. “God, Chanyeol—get it _off!”_

“There is no need to call me ‘God’, Baekhyun.” The mirth in Chanyeol’s eyes almost overpowers lust – _almost –_ and Chanyeol quickly kneels up on the mattress, knees encasing Baekhyun’s hips, to unlatch the material from his torso. He peels the wet shirt away, revealing to Baekhyun marble plains of smooth, clear skin, milky to the eye. The latter’s hands come crawling instantly, Chanyeol’s overlapping them and guiding them all over his well-defined muscles, firmness built up from years of hunting killers and chasing clues. The boy whimpers and gasps as his fingertips leave a fire in their wake. He meets eyes with Chanyeol, looking thoroughly debauched already.

The nobleman guides Baekhyun’s hands lower and lower to the belt of his trousers, using his eyes to communicate non-verbal instructions. His belt is unbuckled, his trousers are unclasped, and his drawers are pulled ever so slightly south, revealing a powerful bush of black hair and Chanyeol’s manhood: long, thick and intimidating, veins pulsing blue.

“H-How is that going to fit?” Baekhyun stammers, eyes glued to the broad meat presented to him in a moonlit fist. “I—I mean— _Jesus.”_

“It’ll fit, don’t worry,” Chanyeol reassures him, voice so low that it scrapes along the cobblestones and grinds up aggregate on the way. He leans down until their faces are aligned and the heavy weight of his length is pressing down against Baekhyun’s stomach, pushing it concave, to gutturally grunt which uncontested confidence: “I’m going to _make it_ fit.”

Baekhyun becomes putty after that, mentally, physically and literally moulding into anything and any shape Chanyeol wants. From where it lies stashed, Chanyeol pulls a wine bottle from his nightstand drawer, presenting it smugly to Baekhyun who blinks in a daze, confused and curious, while also astoundingly overwhelmed. The nobleman bites the stopper off the top in an exhibit of dominance, clenching the cork between his glistening pearly teeth before spitting it out onto the floor metres away, then he commences to drizzle Baekhyun’s entire pelvis in translucent golden pools. The majority of the oil dribbles down off Baekhyun’s alabaster skin, dribbling off his hips and trailing between the juncture of his thighs, dripping obscenely off the curve of his hardened stones. It collects in the sheets, turning them see-through and slippery, yet Chanyeol cups it up in his hands again and uses it to lubricate the entirety of Baekhyun’s nether regions, slavering it across his skin like a sheen of silk.

The boy moans and groans, arching off the bed when his cock twitches at certain strokes and caresses, and when Chanyeol engulfs his member in his warm, slick fist, he makes his lip bleed from how hard he bites down on it. His dilated pupils stare down his nose hungrily at the actions, a mixture of alarmed and dazed, and he pants as if he cannot believe what he is seeing, cannot comprehend what, when, and who.

“I’m going to finger you, alright?” Chanyeol says, holding up a glossy hand with threads of oil webbing his spread fingers together. Light from the oil lamps by the bed catches on the tributaries of oil making their way down Chanyeol’s forearm, making it seem as though his skin has cracked and his blood is molten gold.

“ _Shit—o_ kay.”

Chanyeol loses himself to a smile, finding the boy’s reactions to everything exceptionally adorable. “You have a dirty mouth on you,” he scolds. “Do I need to do something about that or will you fix it on your own?”

Baekhyun’s cheeks bloom with crimson, like roses coming out to flourish in the spring, but he still manages to pull off a shit-eating grin and sniggers, “You know you like it.”

The first finger is seamless, and time is spent getting Baekhyun used to the feeling of something going so far in and then coming all the way back out again. When Chanyeol asks him how it feels, the boy says that it’s like shitting backwards, almost like someone is shoving their hand up his arse – which is real – and, as he had so eloquently put it, “shitting the shit out for me.” Chanyeol honestly doesn’t know how his erection stays alive during Baekhyun’s vivid depictions of defecation and faeces, but he thinks his ever-growing affection probably has something to do with it. The word ‘whipped’ comes to mind.

Nevertheless, all soil explanations aside, Chanyeol continues to exert his arm thoroughly over the next half an hour, building up from a singular digit and a gruellingly slow pace to three fingers at a brutal one, thrusting into Baekhyun’s core with restriction and driving him absolutely insane. Everything burns around them, their ragged breaths fogging up the windows. It causes them to perspire profusely, more than can be deemed attractive, but both are too far gone to notice, let alone care. One of Baekhyun’s hands is tangled in his hair against the pillow, tugging on coffee locks as he throws his head back and cries out to heaven. His other is latched around the wrist of the arm doing all the work, his fingers limply clinging onto Chanyeol’s skin as if he wants him to slow down but second guessing himself at the last minute.

Squelching sounds, so lewd and dirty, fling themselves about the room in heavy disarray, chased hastily by Baekhyun’s sharp breaths and his high-pitched whines, all the sensation getting too much to bear. “G-God, Chanyeol,” Baekhyun cries, back stretching like a taut bowstring off the bed and shins flying high into the air, the arches of his feet cramping ruthlessly as all goes stiff.

Hearing his name seems to snap Chanyeol from a trance, and he brings his arm to an abrupt stop. Baekhyun is trembling, cock red and winking at him with the bead of pre-come on the swollen tip catches the light, and the orphan seems so lost inside his own head that Chanyeol worries he has gone too far.

“Baekhyun.” He tries to draw him back, balancing over his body and staring down into a pair of distant eyes that blink, a little crossed, at the canopy. “Hey.” With his lips cradling the boy’s face, tracing his angular lines and beads of sweat, Baekhyun finally blinks back into reality, his swallow audible.

“H-H-How many p-push-ups do you do then, hm-hmm?”

Chanyeol laughs, relief dousing him in happiness. “Would you like me to slow down?” he offers, almost teasingly, and proceeds to grin like a maniac down at the boy watching him so softly.

Baekhyun smiles ever so prettily, cupping Chanyeol’s face in his hands and craning his neck to place a wet kiss on his mouth. “Yes please,” he whispers, eyes closed and displaying his thick sets of lashes, ebony against porcelain. “I want to be able to actually think when you—when we do it.”

After exchanging more smiles and kisses, Chanyeol agrees, returning to his ministrations and finally pumping the oil over his cock to reduce friction and unnecessary resistance. He leans down to kiss the boy’s plush lips once more before he slowly eases in, setting himself at a moderated pace in order to cause Baekhyun the least amount of pain. In truth, he has done this countless times, on some occasions even with fair men of a similar age, but the majority of his nightly partners are boys like Baekhyun, boys who are celestial, delicate and innocent. Yet out of everyone, all of them, Baekhyun wears the face Chanyeol most likes to see resting against the pillow, haloed in strands of silken hair.

The boy whimpers into his mouth, clinging onto him like a baby to its mother. Chanyeol allows a hint of possessiveness to control a portion of his actions, revelling in the dominance he thrives on and savouring the hold he has over his little orphan. He wants to protect him, shield him away from the evils of the world, and he will gladly walk through the gates of hell if he ever causes the boy any pain, yet it appears that he has a high pain tolerance and, with a slightly wheezy voice, he tauntingly asks, “That the best you can do?” So Chanyeol presses the rest of his length in in one sharp cant of his hips and sends the boy reeling. Naughty angels have to be punished, don’t they?

The nobleman makes love to Baekhyun slowly, allowing him to feel every inch of him there is. It’s hotter and tighter than anything Chanyeol has experienced before, and it leaves him an incoherent display of beast-like grunts and intense scowls, his dominance increasing tenfold and taking Baekhyun completely by surprise. The boy lies there lifelessly, having surrendered his body over to Chanyeol from the minute he was hauled out of the bathtub, and he stares with a passion at the ceiling as he tries to fathom everything he’s feeling.

Baekhyun is all surprised gasps and squeaky “Oh”s, whereas Chanyeol is a gallery of rough grumbles and low exhales, making Baekhyun melt into the oil-soaked covers beneath him which cling like a second skin. They rock ever so tenderly in tandem, Chanyeol’s hips pushing Baekhyun down and up the mattress with every thrust, precise enough to hit dead on against the boy’s prostate. As much as Chanyeol enjoys fast sex, the chaotic kind, he loves to take it slow every once in a while to truly savour his partner’s reactions, and Baekhyun’s face morphing with bliss upon every gyration is definitely something Chanyeol yearns to witness more of.

He aims deep, over and over in exactly the same place, watching enamoured as Baekhyun’s reactions escalate, gasps gaining volume and “Oh”s becoming startled “Ah”s. He sounds so beautiful, so completely divine, that Chanyeol’s heart does somersaults inside his chest, wanting to break free and snuggle with the one dancing within the boy’s own ribs. Coffee strands are sticking to Baekhyun’s forehead from his sweat, bullets shedding from his temples and neck ready to be lapped up by Chanyeol’s waiting tongue as if he were lemonade on a swelteringly hot day. Chanyeol scalds the tang of the boy’s perspiration onto his tongue, finding himself addicted to its taste and too in the moment to care about how gross it would seem in an everyday situation.

The orphan spasms every so often, tremoring like the tectonic plates do when they threaten an earthquake, and then he’ll sigh, deflate, and work his body around Chanyeol’s as if it has always been meant to fit there. His arms are just long enough for him to wrap them comfortably about Chanyeol’s neck, and the heels of his feet fit perfectly in the small of the Chanyeol’s back. Even his torso is at optimum length, for it means his hips are in direct alignment with Chanyeol’s thick girth and the swings can go so much deeper without him having to be folded in half. It all really seems like it was meant to be, like Fate brought them together, and Baekhyun quite emotionally tears up at the prospect.

It all finishes in a blast of white flashing behind their eyelids when euphoria peaks. Their desperate struggles for breath mingle together, and oxygen is forsaken for eager kisses, lips on lips and tongue against tongue. Chanyeol feels complete, like they are finally close enough, and as he stares down lovingly at Baekhyun’s misty eyes, he has the courage to hope that the little orphan might just feel the same way.

“ _God!”_ Baekhyun pants, chuckling as tears trail down the sides of his face, lost to his shimmering hairline. “We should have done that sooner. If I’d have known how good it felt I would have let you jump me when we first met.”

Chanyeol cringes but laughs nonetheless, rolling off and out of Baekhyun to lie on his back beside him. “I told you that you didn’t need to call me ‘God’,” he smirks as he reaches across to the bedside table to light a cigarette, lying back down with the ashtray laid on his bare chest to prevent any burns.

“Hmm,” Baekhyun smiles devilishly, curling onto his side and wrapping himself up in the oil-drenched covers. “Maybe I think you _are_ a god.”

The nobleman only chortles, struggling to suppress his smirk as he tries to inhale his Gold Flake. He considers saying something ridiculously cheesy, perhaps, ‘If I am God, then you have to be my angel’, but his conscience votes against it in the end. He hasn’t the energy to come out with such bold statements now, and he cannot deny that he feels a little anxious about the whole thing. He hopes he made Baekhyun’s first time memorable, a night to praise for the rest of his life – a memory that he will randomly think of in the future and smile as a result.

Apparently, his thoughts are being replicated.

“Sorry if I wasn’t very good. Never had sex before, ‘course.” The boy sounds shy, and Chanyeol dislikes it because Baekhyun should never mute his personality down, should never be unsure of himself like that, let alone _insecure._ So he takes it upon himself to ease the boy’s thoughts, washing him over with sincere compliments and sweet nicknames.

“You were splendid, dear,” he says earnestly around his cigarette. “The best I have had in a long time.”

“You’re just sayin’ that.”

“I’m not,” Chanyeol protests, knocking off the ashes of his cigarette onto the tray between his nipples. “The best kind of sex is the sex with feelings, and boy, I sure do have a lot of those right now.”

That makes Baekhyun giggle like a little schoolgirl, and Chanyeol decides he likes it when Baekhyun is that type of shy – embarrassed at a compliment rather than embarrassed at who he is. “Well, you weren’t so bad yourself. The best I’ve ever had.”

Chanyeol snorts, watching as the smoke leaving his nostrils spirals up towards the shadowy ceiling. Night fell a while ago, the ticking of the clock dulled by their lovemaking, and Chanyeol doesn’t know where the time went – not that he really minds it slipping between his fingers if he is with Baekhyun.

“Ah yes, thank you, what an honour,” Chanyeol teases, “even though I am the _only_ one you’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, but still the best,” Baekhyun grins, propping himself up on his elbow so he can lean down and plant a pleasant kiss on Chanyeol’s lips, smiling from ear-to-ear as he does so. “I think I might just have to demand you do it again at some point.”

The nobleman smiles, watching with adoring eyes as the boy rests his head on the pillow again, closer this time.

“I sometimes wonder, you know, how you come out with all these big words,” Chanyeol says, then realises in a panic how condescending he just sounded and he rushes to amend himself. “I mean, for someone who cannot read or write, you have quite a colourful vocabulary. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing or that—or that you _shouldn’t_ have a vocabulary, I’m just curious as to how you know all of these words.”

Baekhyun only chuckles, coming to press his body against Chanyeol’s side and gently suckling on his shoulder to make a mark. Chanyeol tenses around his cigarette, the feeling of Baekhyun’s teeth nibbling away and his hot tongue teasing his skin making his cock twitch.

“You can thank Madam Poppet for that,” the boy announces one he has kissed Chanyeol’s newly-forming bruise complete. “She fancies herself as an upper-class woman you see. Likes to spew out all these big and fancy words to us kids because she thinks it’ll make her look cleverer. It’s like she’s tryin’ to big herself up or somethin’ because then she feels all superior for having to explain to us what the words mean. I ask her a lot of the time for the meanin’s and everythin’, like this one time she was yellin’ at Tim sayin’: “I am not askin’ you to clean your boots, I am _demandin’_ you clean your boots”, and once Tim had gone off to do as he was told I says: “What’s demandin’ mean?” and she said that it means to order someone to do something strictly, so then I asked her, “What’s strict mean?” and she told me that it’s when someone likes to follow the rules and not break them, someone who likes to be obeyed, so then I had to ask her, “What’s obey mean?” and I think she got a little pissed off with me at that point ‘cause she walked off in a huff.”

The boy snickers, pleased with himself, and Chanyeol grins while wrapping an arm around his lithe shoulders, cuddling him close. “You little rascal,” he comments giddily, stubbing out the light in his cigarette and sliding the ashtray back onto the bedside. He engulfs Baekhyun within his embrace, allowing the orphan to rest his head against his beating heart. Grimacing at the feel of the oil still latched onto their bodies and soaked into the quilt, Chanyeol makes a mental note to clean them up and change the sheets once Baekhyun has gone to sleep.

“I haven’t seen Tim in a while,” Baekhyun says, voice condensing against Chanyeol’s chest.

“Hm?”

“He got adopted last month. Well, more like sold.”

Chanyeol frowns, tightening his grip around the boy out of instinct. “Sold?”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun sighs, sounding droopy. “Turns out, Tim wasn’t really that much of an orphan. Or he was, but he still had some relatives left out here – an aunt that he never knew about. So this aunt came to get him, and adoption is normally free, I heard, because, you know, if you can find someone willin’ to take your kid then it’s one less mouth to feed, but I overheard Madam Poppet and this aunt lady talkin’, and Madam Poppet was demandin’ money for the boy, a whole fifteen pounds she was tryin’ to ransom him for. Luckily, this aunt woman was pretty rich from her foreign husband or somethin’, and Tim managed to get out of there. I heard Madam Poppet’s done this to other children too, but it’s just like when I was almost adopted by that brothel. She prefers to sell us kids than give us away. I reckon she’s one of them witches what tries to sell young girl’s virginities to creepy old perverts as well, seems like somethin’ she would do.”

Chanyeol thinks about pointing out that it is illegal, but the woman is already a secret criminal and therefore it is not a big revelation. Still, his freedom would be on the line if he ever decided to hand her in, and so he is sworn to secrecy.

“She never tried to sell yours, did she?” Chanyeol asks, voice hard, and Baekhyun is quick to shake his head.

“Don’t you remember? We’re scum. She wouldn’t sell me even if I _could_ make her a big profit. Guess she’s got some kind of principles in her head, not quite sure how sound they are, though; not that I’m complainin’ about it.”

Chanyeol sighs, rubbing his hands up and down Baekhyun’s bare form before tugging the duvet up over their chests. In the silence, he starts to think of what happens next. Their relationship will not be easy, not with so many homophobes around, but Chanyeol is willing to make sacrifices in order for it work. So long as it doesn’t jeopardise his job, income or criminal status, he won’t have to put up special measures in order to keep their relationship completely hidden.

Thing is, he wants to take Baekhyun out to dinners, wants to take him on train rides through the country to the beaches on the coast, wants to take him shopping and gift him clothes, jewellery and shoes. He doesn’t want to lock Baekhyun up in his house simply because he is afraid of someone thinking the wrong – or _right –_ thing about them. If someone ever took Baekhyun away, sent them both to different prisons, they would never see each other again.

Startled at the onslaught of such negative thoughts, Chanyeol runs away from their potentially problematic future and changes the subject. Live in the now, Chanyeol, he reminds himself. Live in the now.

“If you could have anything you want for Christmas, Baekhyun, anything at all, what would it be?”

Baekhyun yawns, cuddling closer like a snoozing cat, and he sleepily drapes his arm over Chanyeol’s middle. “I want to sing. Sing to everyone in London. Everyone in the world. Make my own songs and music, and… words. And if I… If I could have absolutely anything, I…”

The boy appears to drift off mid-sentence, but Chanyeol jiggles him a bit to get him to carry on, awaiting his answer with bated breath. “I want someone to…”

Again, the boys mind dozes, and so Chanyeol jives this time, hoping to keep him awake for longer. “Someone to…”

Chanyeol is about to pinch the poor boy, plant more bruises on his skin, but in a very timid voice, as quiet as a mouse, Baekhyun drowsily mumbles, “adopt me.”

**❅**

“ _Chanyeol!”_

The nobleman’s body leaps out of sleep at the angered squawk piercing the silence of his bedroom. His first thought is that he doesn’t have a parrot, and his second is that if he does somehow own one, he doesn’t ever remember getting it; but when he opens his eyes he jumps a mile again at the sight of his sister leaning down over him with her hands on her rotund hips.

“Why are you still asleep? It is the _middle_ of the _day!_ ” she cries, sounding as if he has just barred all the windows and doors of a children’s hospital shut and then set it on fire. “Get up!”

“What the _hell_ are you _doing_ here?!” he roars in response, heart choked in cold water at the scare of her unexpected, and very much unwanted, arrival. He is still lying in bed, half-delirious from sleep and half-delirious from unadulterated fury, and he is vaguely aware that he is still completely naked under the linens that have been pulled off his chest to cover the cowering mound on the mattress beside him. “Get the _fuck_ out, Yoora, you _heinous cow!_ ”

Her eyes pop from her skull as she grips onto her umbrella for strength. “I will pretend you did not say that, Brother, for your sake.”

A low grumble rips up through Chanyeol’s throat like thunder. “Just tell me what the fuck you want and _leave!”_

“Mummy has died, Chanyeol. You are required with immediate effect to assist in the making of arrangements for her funeral and the allocation of her belongings. I shall be waiting in the carriage outside while you get ready, and we shall go and meet Chanseok at the estate. Do not be too long, Brother, you know how much Chanseok detests tardiness and he has no reason to pretend to like you any longer. And you need to come alone.” With her last words of venom, she struts like a gust of arctic wind from the room.

With an incredulous laugh, Chanyeol drops his torso back down on the mattress, elbows slipping so that his arms can lie straight. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, trying to calm his heart rate, and debates whether to grab a cigarette or not this early in the morning – or afternoon, because apparently, it’s ‘the middle of the day’.

“Is she gone?” a small voice asks out, and Chanyeol looks over to see Baekhyun’s glistening brown eyes peering out through a hole in his linen fort.

“She’s outside, but yes, gone from the room, at least,” he sighs, rolling onto his side so as to see Baekhyun better when the boy finally brings the sheets from over his head. When Chanyeol switched the sheets to clean ones, they also switched sides of the bed. “Sorry about all of that, she’s a pompous bitch most of the time, it can’t be helped. I reckon her arse is jealous of the amount of shit that comes out of her mouth.”

Chanyeol gets the desired response: a little orphan boy falling about in a fit of giggles, and he gladly takes him into his arms and kisses him good morning properly. He refuses to let Yoora dull his day, and especially not this special occasion – Baekhyun’s first ‘morning after’.

“Did you sleep well?” Chanyeol asks into the boy’s mouth as he lays him back against the sheets, his body curling over the top of the other’s small form as he moves to nose down his neck.

“Yes, thank you,” Baekhyun bites his lip, hands roaming the length of Chanyeol’s bare spine.

As Chanyeol breathes the hot air around Baekhyun’s Adam’s apple, he says, “Let’s keep her waiting for a while. As punishment.” His lips latch onto the obtrusion in the orphan’s otherwise sleek throat, and he rejoices in the sound of a surprised, unanticipated moan.

“I—I’m still a little sore, though,” Baekhyun replies, suddenly sounding out of breath.

Chanyeol laughs darkly against the boy’s chest, sending a tidal wave of exhilarating vibrations through his body and rousing a pretty layer of goose bumps. “Well, there are _other_ holes to put things in.”

**❅**

To Chanyeol, having to bid goodbye to Baekhyun is sadder than either of his parent’s deaths, but at the end of the day, if he does not do as Chanseok bids, he shall face a wrath capable of obliterating his entire life until he is nothing but a beggar on the street; and then how will he pay for all of Baekhyun’s pretty things? Chanseok has even more money and power than he does, and, being an incessant extrovert, he has an entire catalogue of friends.

They kiss in the porch, Chanyeol making sure that his little orphan is adequately dressed to keep the cold away, and he gives him a token handkerchief should his nose start to run on the long walk back to the orphanage. He would order him a cab but there is limited time, and Baekhyun had insisted on walking anyway, explaining, “I need to stretch my limp out before Madam Poppet sees me, you know? Can’t have her knowin’ I get laid when she doesn’t. Envy turns women into right old hags.”

Chanyeol had relented, then proceeded to wrap Baekhyun up in three scarves, two pairs of gloves, an extra pair of socks and a padded inner jacket. He looks adorably plump now with a round middle and no neck, and Chanyeol wants so desperately to wrap him in his arms and squeeze him tight, just to hear him squeak. Nevertheless, Baekhyun is pushing him towards the front door, reminding him that his mother has died and he has somewhere he needs to be. 

“Are you sure you know the way?” the nobleman hesitates, crowding the pavement outside his house as he shuts his front gate. It’s a chilly afternoon, fog congregating in the air in cloud-like wisps; whenever someone walks through the hazy mass it swirls madly like ink does in water. The sun is hidden behind a layer of white, its rays resonating off each and every inch of the blanket to create a blindingly bright day, albeit unforgivingly cold, while the snow has been hardened again by the negative temperatures during in the night, crystallised halfway to ice, and Chanyeol frets in his mind about what will happen if Baekhyun falls over. Still, he would rather the boy slip on a path he knows than get lost for hours in a place he doesn’t, increasingly vulnerable to hypothermia the longer he remains exposed.

Baekhyun nods once in affirmation. “I am sure.”

“But are you _completely_ sure?”

“Yes, Chanyeol, I am _completely_ sure. I cross my heart.” The boy may be feigning annoyance, but he glows under the attention, a smirk tickling the corners of his lips.

Chanyeol is still wary, so says: “Alright then, tell me how you’re going to get there. Tell me the way. With road names.”

Baekhyun deadpans, no longer needing to feign anything. “Are you serious?” he asks flatly, and at Chanyeol’s unwavering expression, he deems that he is. “Fine,” he relents with a huff. “I’m gonna walk down there ‘til I come to the inn on the corner, and that’ll take me to Oxford Street, and then I’m gonna do a little frolickin’ down Chancery Lane which will take me to Fleet Street where the orphanage is. Happy now? I’ve lived here twice as long as you have, I think I know my way around well enough. Just because I can’t read or write doesn’t mean I have no clue where I’m goin’.”

Thoroughly taken aback, Chanyeol faffs about trying to get his mind back on track and struggles to do something as simple as a nod. “Right, w-well then. I suppose I’ll see you when I get back. I will return before Christmas hopefully. Mummy’s dead now so I am free to spend the day with you, hmm? How about that?”

Baekhyun inflates in jubilation and nods like an eager little puppy. “I like the sound of that. I’ll see you then, then. Have a safe journey, won’t you?”

“You too. Stay safe,” he smiles, waving Baekhyun off with a tip of his hat. “And be careful on the snow! There could be ice hiding under it! Do not let it deceive you!” he adds as an afterthought, the orphan already walking away from him.

“Alright, Chanyeol, calm down. What’s a little-frozen water gonna do?” The boy walks backwards on purpose, just to drive him up the wall, and Chanyeol stiffly forces himself into the carriage pulled over in front of his house.

“Is that your latest endeavour?” Yoora asks shrilly, as shallow and frivolous as ever, ready to shit on anything he does do and doesn’t do. “I saw him last time, I believe. I had never realised you were a paedophile, Chanyeol. Will you ever stop shaming our family? Dragging our noble name through the mud that that little scruffy boy probably eats for dinner?”

Chanyeol distracts himself by pulling out a smoke, lighting it up in the unventilated box that is their rickety mode of transport. “Oh do shut up, sister of mine,” he grunts from around his cigarette, casting his eyes out the window. “I would strangle you if you were not a woman.”

“Oh,” she fumes, lungs convulsing from her unbridled anger as she struggles to know what to do with it. Writhing in her seat like a child who has wet themselves, Chanyeol watches in satisfaction as her face stains red. “Why don’t you go to hell?”

“I thought I was already going there for having particular tastes and not being ashamed of them. Why don’t you shock me and say something intelligent instead?”

“Just wait until—”

“Until what? You go running off to Chanseok again? It wouldn’t be the first time, now, would it? So really, do shut up.”

Yoora gives up trying to win the argument after that and they ride the rest of the way to Buckinghamshire in complete silence, boxed in a tiny room of mulberry leather and black maple.

When they arrive two and a half hours later at the manor house, Chanyeol is greeted coldly by the infamous Chanseok, the head of the Park family. They look too much alike, in Chanyeol’s opinion, and although they are both devilishly handsome gentlemen, he doesn’t want to be affiliated with someone like him; the name is enough on its own, but having practically identical faces sometimes makes him cringe when he looks in the mirror.

They shake hands and exchange awkward pleasantries, nothing more, and then it is down to business.

Mummy died in her sleep after having a stroke yesterday afternoon, Chanyeol learns, and when he looks down at her body lying in the bed he feels only the slightest bit of pain in his chest. It is regret, the incessant wondering of ‘what if’. Maybe if he had told her about his sexuality, she would have accepted him, encouraging Chanseok and Yoora to do the same. Perhaps they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats like they are now, making immature digs at one another’s achievements and lifestyle choices. Still, there is no use in dwelling on it now, for she cannot solve all his problems from beyond the grave.

With money and power behind them, it is no hassle arranging a funeral on such short notice. The local church puts a stops to two weddings to make room for them, and all the local tradesmen of the town are practically falling at the Park children’s feet, offering them their services and wares in return for the glory of saying “I worked with Chanseok Park!” Even the postal service offers them express delivery on all their notices, sent out to friends, family and work colleagues of the past and present to alert them of the funeral’s time, date and location.

The funeral itself turns out to be a very macabre occasion, almost as morbid as Chanyeol having to live with his family – which he has been forcefully made to do for the last three days. From the black horses pulling the carriage to the church, the gothic looking coffin and the sinister coal roses, to the shadow drapes, the miserable clothes, and the professional mourners in attendance who are paid to look sad, it is a ghastly affair, one that frightens all the children in attendance to silence.

What really makes him feel uneasy, though, is the fact that before the funeral, they had had to all sit around and take a picture with their dead mother as if she wasn’t dead, and now Yoora is parading around looking so heartbrokenly beautiful with a ring stuffed full of Mummy’s hair on her finger, sniffling behind her palm.

As it so happens, many of Yoora suitors have been invited to the event, as it is the optimum time for them to come along and dab at her tears while she recounts fake childhood memories of how great her mummy was and how much she and her mother adored each other. She has even gotten so good at lying that she can cry on demand, and Chanyeol _tsk_ s loudly at the show she’s putting on, disapproving and disgusted all the same.

They have a family plot out in the graveyard of the church between two oak trees, an ominous looking mausoleum with weeping angels on either side. Yoora deliberately goes to stand next to one, probably in the hopes that her suitors will see the resemblance. She sobs ever so prettily into a handkerchief from a man named Michael as Chanyeol bears the weight of the bronze casket on his shoulders, his mother laid safely inside a white velvet body with an adjustable headrest because God forbid she get a kink in her neck.

He walks into the darkness of the tomb while the priest babbles on and on about heaven and all of that, and he strains his muscles when it comes to lowering the coffin into the custom made holding on the left hand side. Their father rests to the right, probably decayed down to the bone by now, Chanyeol thinks offhandedly, as he grits his teeth and finally lets the casket drop into place, a plume of dust blowing back up at him as if his mother is saying “Good riddance.”

“Goodbye, Mummy,” he whispers in return, wiping off his hands and stalking out to stand with all the other mourners as the priest says his famous “Ashes to ashes” line.

Once all is said and done, Chanseok instructs him to socialise, and Chanyeol thinks that he would much rather be six feet under than do that. Thus, he networks, pretending to remember people who unnervingly know everything about him and cry, “Look how much you’ve grown!” He even gets the “I remember when you were just a boy” line a couple of times from the older people in attendance. Lovely.

Despite this being a funeral where they are supposed to relive all the happy memories of Mummy’s life, people take to interrogating Chanyeol instead. Where does he live? What does he do? Is he married yet? “Where are the grandchildren?” one woman even jokes, and the look of revulsion on his face causes her laughter to awkwardly peter out into a little cough. So much for networking.

He hates being here, surrounded by the imperious members of society’s uppermost class and an overbearing amount of flaunted wealth. There are orphans, children like Baekhyun, who need the money more than them. There are children who struggle to eat, sleep and even live without catching something as mundane as the common cold and dying from it because they have no access to the proper medicine. He glares around at all the greed, grimaces, and stalks off across the snowy graveyard to have a smoke.

From across the yard, the mourners all look like starved crows pecking at one another to big themselves up, and Chanyeol sighs in distaste. He spends a good ten minutes poking about with his walking stick, moving dead bushes and thistles away from the nameplates on several headstones. While he is reading all about a man called George Brimm who died fifteen years ago – he was a beloved father of three girls – Chanseok appears at his side with a cigar slotted between his fingers. What a metaphor, Chanyeol inwardly snorts as he side-glares at the offending smoke. Chanseok has always fancied himself to be the bigger and better brother, and he likes to show it; his top hat is an inch taller, the handle of his cane is made of gold, not silver like Chanyeol’s is, and his hideous sideburns are his pride and joy, the monstrous stripes of black hair having spread like a weed down his jawline. At least Chanyeol doesn’t have to see _that_ when he looks in the mirror every morning.

“We are all still getting together for Christmas tomorrow. Not at the estate, but at my home in Oxford. Mummy would want you to be there.”

“Mummy doesn’t want anything anymore,” Chanyeol replies, managing to bite his tongue before talking of how her brain has probably shrivelled to the size of a plum already. “And neither you nor Yoora enjoys my company that much, so your invitation is rather suspicious, I’m afraid. Is there someone here that you want to impress with your generosity, Brother? An investor, perhaps?” He raises his eyebrows with a pressing gaze, meeting Chanseok’s eyes head on in contest. “ _’Look how great I am, inviting the AWOL brother to dinner_ ’,” he mocks. “You are aware, aren’t you, that this is a funeral and _not_ a garden party?”

Chanseok rolls his eyes, hard, and chortles snootily around his cigar. “My, my,” he sneers, puffing out smoke while his shoulders broaden, “sometimes I wonder whether all fags behave like this or whether it is just you and your shit pile of a personality, Chanyeol.”

“Probably both,” he mutters, turning around with the intention to leave before his path is blocked by a stoic Yoora. She comes strutting over looking like the Angel of Death, her sweet little umbrella now replaced with foreboding black material – it might as well be a scythe, Chanyeol muses – and an attention-seeking veil masking the upper half of her face, pinned into her hair with little onyx beads that reside under the rim of her heavily decorated hat.

She pulls that face she always pulls when in the presence of Chanseok – the innocent, I’ve-done-nothing-wrong-and-never-will face, and Chanyeol wants to grab her by the hair and throttle her until she’s bald. Without even doing anything other than just being here she is making his skin crawl with irritation.

“Are you coming to dinner, Chanyeol? For Christmas? Chanseok’s children keep asking after your whereabouts. They want to see you.” Her sweet and innocent voice is enough to make Chanyeol want to smack his head against George Brimm’s gravestone. It has always been like this: she will come over and be a little menace to him but turn into a goody little two shoes whenever Chanseok is around. Chanyeol has no idea whether their brother suspects anything, but even if he did he wouldn’t do anything about it. It’s not like he is hell-bent on making Chanyeol feel comfortable in their presence anyway. 

“Oh, Yoora darling,” Chanyeol says with a disappointed tone, “if you’re going to be two-faced at least make one of those faces pretty.” Her exaggerated look of reproach is enough material to make Chanyeol laugh for the rest of his life, and he commits it to memory with a smug smile. “I shall not be spending Christmas with either of you _or_ your children. Now that we have no need to speak to one another anymore, what with Mummy being reunited with Father, why don’t we all be strangers, hmm? I think it would be very much for the best. And worry not, I shall belatedly find my own way back to London.”

With a tip of his hat, Chanyeol leaves to bribe the coach master of someone else’s way home with a ridiculous amount of money and is on his way back to London within a spry twenty minutes.

**❅**

It is when he has arrived in London and is treading down Oxford Street that Chanyeol remembers something disastrously important.

He departed his carriage about fifteen minutes ago by Marylebone Station and had the intention of finding Baekhyun a Christmas present before he picked him up from the orphanage, wanting to surprise the boy with not only himself but a gift as well. He has been perusing shop windows ever since, debating on whether to buy Baekhyun a toy, a frock coat, or even something perishable (like a cheese bun), but so far nothing has seemed worthy of his sweet little angel.

Wistfully, he thinks back to all their time together, every word shared between them, and wonders what sort of gift can summarise all his feelings at once. He needs to find something overwhelming, something lovely, something… _divine,_ yet everything he comes across pales in comparison to Baekhyun himself, and Chanyeol is well on his way to booking an artist to come and paint the boy’s portrait instead. _Merry Christmas, here is a painting of you._

Then he remembers, that although it is Christmas Eve today, it is also something else: another special occasion, one that he has so wrongly and so foolishly overlooked.

_“That don’t mean she’s gonna keep for forever, course. Eighteen and I’m outta here.”_

_“Yikes, that means I was ten when you first came here, and you were, what? How old?”_

_“And I’m not eighteen yet, and you have to be eighteen for consent and everythin’, but I honestly don’t think I can wait that long.”_

Chanyeol’s eyes glaze over as he replays all those scenes in his head, the display of nutcrackers in Hamley’s front window fading into the distance as he starts to stare at himself, brooding, _remembering,_ cursing himself to hell. Baekhyun’s voice echoes in his head, chipper and lively, each and every word breaking Chanyeol down until he feels so full of dread that he’s about to have a panic attack.

_“Anyway, I was born on Christmas Eve they think, at least, that’s when Madam Poppet found me on her doorstep lookin’ about an hour old.”_

Baekhyun is turning eighteen today. Baekhyun, who has also not been adopted. And in a split second, Chanyeol is sprinting down the street. He collides messily with all the avid Christmas shoppers in an abundance of elbows, shoulders and stomped-on toes, shoving those in his path out the way with every limb he has at his disposal (almost head-butting one man in his determination). People curse at him, women cry and fall ungracefully into the arms of their male lovers, and he even disrupts an entire choir of carol singers, barraging straight through the middle like a battering ram without any consideration for the main singer’s eccentric musical run. Their carol cuts off mid-word, the onlookers gasp in horror, and song books go fluttering into the air in a dramatic display of over exaggeration. Some women are too fidgety for their own good, poised to fling things at the slightest of disturbances.

Throwing one foot in front of the other, Chanyeol brashly swerves down Drury Lane and flagrantly bursts out onto The Strand, leaving disaster in his wake in the form of disgruntled theatre-fanatics milling around London’s West End and a mess of show props that were being loaded onto waggons before his oncoming. A giant wooden sun with a disturbing smiley-face comes rolling down the road after him, and he just has enough brainpower left to push a little boy out of its way.

People yell at him to stop, mainly men who want to look powerful in front of their wives, yet he turns deaf at all their ramblings. The worries that would so relentlessly trouble him before do not even make an appearance in his mind now. His fretting over the icy snow, his irrational fear of being run down by a horse, even his paranoia over people thinking him a thief running away from a bank robbery, have been flooded out. His worry over Baekhyun’s whereabouts leaving room for little else in his thoughts.

He realises how scared he feels, how utterly terrified he is over the prospect of losing Baekhyun to the workhouse because he knows that his life will never be the same. Either way, Baekhyun will impact him, whether he reaches him in time or not, and he would much rather live out his days with the orphan at his side than live them mourning after his long lost presence. With adrenalin coursing through his veins and giving him an extra boost, he pushes on relentlessly, following the Strand until it becomes Fleet Street at Chancery Lane.

Berating himself, he wonders why he had never made the connection before – why he has never even _questioned_ Baekhyun’s age before. All the clues had been there, laid out in the open like a treasure map, and although he is a private investigator and it is his job to know things, he had been so caught up in his ever-developing love that he had never thought to confirm it. Baekhyun is his lover and he never even recognised the fact that he was seventeen, on the precipice of being taken away.

When he finally gets close enough with the orphanage in sight, his heart leaps at the sight of a carriage outside the doorway. Miss Stott and Madam Poppet stand there on the pavement, getting hats tipped to them by two gentlemen in posh business clothes. Chanyeol would go charging at them like a bull, but the relief that Baekhyun has not yet left makes his panicked high crash.

He stands, dormant, watching in something akin to horror as Madam Poppet turns around to the door behind her and pulls Baekhyun out of the entranceway. He shies away from the harsh sun, its rays glaring so venomously off the snow that it blinds everyone, and Chanyeol squints to see through the wintery haze of the air.

Jostled around in her hold, Baekhyun slips dangerously on the ice and clings onto her elbow for support. Chanyeol’s teeth almost explode under the pressure of the grit he locks them in when he sees Madam Poppet slap Baekhyun on the hand as punishment. How _dare_ she touch those hands! How does she possess the nerve to lay even a finger on him after what she did last time?

“ _Madam, please! Please just wait for Mister Pa—”_

As if he is being summoned, Chanyeol starts to march his way forwards, ears straining to hear Madam Poppet’s voice as she animatedly gives Baekhyun another telling off. Watching Baekhyun struggle has Chanyeol’s heart clenching, but watching him fight back has tears of pride pooling in his eyes. His Baekhyun is so very stubborn and so very bossy, and Chanyeol is obsessed. He hears the boy shouting, crying out, and Chanyeol quickens his pace at his desperate tone.

“ _Let me go! You can’t send me away! My birthday isn’t even over yet I—I—You_ have _to_ wait! _”_

“Now, now, Baekhyun,” Madam Poppet’s voice filters in over the rabble of the street, a sneering mockery of The Queen’s English. “I think we have quite had enough of that. Why don’t you get into the carriage like a good little boy?”

“ _I’m not getting into your_ fuckin’ _carriage!”_ Baekhyun spits on the woman, his slobber splattering her all across the face in an act of pure defiance, and the four adults swarm around him like ants to decaying food in order to contain him as he rages. “ _Put me down!”_ he cries. “ _God damn you! Put me down!”_

The men, probably workhouse minions, seize Baekhyun by the arms and start to lead him to the open door of the carriage, kicking and screaming. He wrestles with them, throwing his body everywhere in the hopes of shaking off their grips, but it all seems to be in vain.

“ _You can’t put me in there! Get off me! Get off me you great bastards!”_

“Shut your mouth,” one of the men snarls, and he kicks Baekhyun brutally in the shin. Baekhyun cries out in pain, wincing to the point where his whole face is scrunched up, and with his lack of resistance, the men deliver him one almighty shove. “Now _get in there_.”

“Well,” Chanyeol makes his entrance with poetic timing, swinging the end of his cane through the air so he can place it horizontally across the carriage door, blocking it, “I think that’s enough of that.”

The shock of it all stills the situation for a moment, grips faltering and shouts fading off, before Baekhyun launches himself on him and clings on for dear life. Chanyeol is strangled by a pair of arms, in a good way, and he hoists Baekhyun up against his own form, feet dangling in mid-air, just so he can savour his weight once again. The boy looks elated to see him again, all rosy skin and glistening skin, the tip of his strawberry nose delightfully dewy. His gloved hands ball into fists at Chanyeol’s shoulder blades, his snuffling nose buried in the warm column of the nobleman’s neck.

“Tell them, Chanyeol,” he whispers desperately, his breath sending excited tingles all through Chanyeol’s body. “Tell them they can’t take me. You can’t let them take me.”

Besotted, Chanyeol gently rocks Baekhyun as if he were a baby, an action invisible to the naked eye yet felt by the boy who leans even more fervently into the comfort of his touch. “Hush now, it’s alright,” he coos, gently stroking Baekhyun’s back up and down to calm him. Even through all the layers of their clothing, he can feel Baekhyun’s thundering heart. It makes him cringe to imagine how scared Baekhyun must have been, even if he was putting up a fight and cussing them all out. The boy must have been as terrified as he was, and Chanyeol finds himself oddly satisfied that the feeling was mutual. “I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he assures confidently, squeezing him gently.

“What on Earth is this all about?” one of the men breaks their moment like a sledgehammer against a window, and Chanyeol turns to glare at him, begrudgingly letting Baekhyun go. He sets the boy carefully down on his own feet, snow crunching icily beneath the leather soles, and he ushers him to stand slightly behind his shoulder so that he can manage the brunt of the confrontation, should it come. He does not want Baekhyun harmed, even if the boy is insanely valiant.  

“This boy belongs to me now,” Chanyeol asserts impassively like a king, “forgive us both for the inconvenience.”

Again, the shock is back, and Chanyeol bathes in it like Baekhyun had sunk into his first hot bath: relishing every second. The stunned looks on all their faces makes Chanyeol want to burst out laughing, the muscles in his face tensing and contorting in an effort to hold all his hilarious guffaws inside. His eyes roam his foes, noting how Miss Stott looks as petrified as normal and how Madam Poppet is dressed in flamingo pink, something that clashes hideously with her peachy complexion. The two men from the workhouse, on the other hand, are dressed like fine businessmen, upholding the illusion that all activities which take place in the workhouse are safe and clean, harmless, and Chanyeol sneers in disgust when he looks them up and down.

“I assume you are from the workhouse?” the nobleman says as his opening, managing to garner their attention through their dumbfounded faze as they blink at him. “In which case, there shall be no reimbursement for your troubles. I see no need to pay you when you were taking this boy for free,” he smiles over-sweetly, intentionally bitter, before turning to Madam Poppet next and gleefully laying his eyes upon her blanched face. Her expression twitches, probably from irritation, and with every two spasms of her mouth her left eye will squint. She looks as if she has just sucked on a horridly sour lemon.

“And to you, Madam Poppet, I say: Baekhyun is mine now, no questions asked. I would prefer it if we do not cross paths again, so if you ever see me coming, please do me the favour of turning the other way. You are living proof that manure can sprout legs and walk, and I don’t want you defacing the ground I reside upon.”

She has a little brainpower left to look half-heartedly scandalised, yet Chanyeol doesn’t give her the time of day to see if that expression successfully goes anywhere. He turns on his heel to the refreshing sound of grinding snow and begins to guide Baekhyun away from the scene of the crime.

It seems too easy, Chanyeol thinks, to walk away, but the others are in such a sightless stupor that they don’t even seem to notice. Madam Poppet stares in alarm at the place where Chanyeol’s face just was and the workhouse men exchange bewildered glances while scratching their heads. Miss Stott, for once, doesn’t actually look scared, and is hiding a smile behind her fingers, which actually makes for an exquisite surprise. Chanyeol feels warm at the gesture.

They do not call after them, and neither do they chase their tails. Instead, Baekhyun and Chanyeol rather peacefully walk along Fleet Street in a thoughtful silence. They have averted a catastrophe yet again by the skin of their teeth, and Chanyeol decides that they ought to try and live peacefully from now on so as to not push their luck.

It is not until they have passed Drury Lane again when Baekhyun pulls them into an alleyway, looking pale but relieved, all fidgety with frazzled nerves. “I really thought—” his breath cuts him off, a harsh gasp straight to the back of his throat. “I just really thought that they were gonna take me.”

Chanyeol steps forwards, embracing the trembling boy again to ease his conscience. After all, if anyone is going to be taking Baekhyun anywhere now, it’s him, and he has a long list of places he wants to visit with the boy at his arm now that he’s thought about it. The beach, for example; he would love to see Baekhyun chasing the waves.

“Even if they had taken you, I would have come after you. As soon as I learned where you are I would have come straight for you and brought you back here to be with me. Where you belong.” In the cover of the alley, Chanyeol manages to bow his head just hard to peck Baekhyun’s temple, his askew newsboy cap preventing him from kissing his crown.

Baekhyun wraps his arms around him again, taut and tight, and refuses to let go. “You’re the best birthday present ever,” he says, barely above a whisper, as he burrows his face into Chanyeol’s buttoned coat, delightfully insistent.

Grinning, Chanyeol gives the boy another reassuring squeeze. “And you’re the best Christmas present ever,” he croons, Baekhyun pulling his face back to look up at him. “Now we can spend Christmas together, hmm? Just the two of us. You said you would like that before if I remember correctly. Why don’t we go to the butchers and find ourselves a turkey, then head off to the greengrocers and get some potatoes, carrots, brussel sprouts, and then—”

Baekhyun kisses him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck to make him hunch over so their lips can meet. He’s enthusiastic, playful, and he licks persistently at the seam of Chanyeol’s lips as if they are tucked away in the safety of Chanyeol’s townhouse and not loitering precariously in an alleyway that opens out onto one of the busiest streets of London. They are perfectly insane, Chanyeol supposes as he takes Baekhyun by the waist and reels him in until their bodies press together. He gathers from the ardent response that Baekhyun rather likes the idea of spending Christmas together, just the two of them by a crackling fire with his little angel singing sweet carols to him, and what a divine little Christmas it shall turn out be.

 

 

**❅**

**❅**

**❅**

**❅**

 

 

 

 

[My twitter ( ˘ ³˘)❤ ](https://twitter.com/butabrit)

[Curious Cat!](https://curiouscat.me/butabrit)

If you have a moment, please read [this post](https://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1207136/2)! Thank you!(ᵔᴥᵔ)

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please note that I do not want constructive criticism. Please do not share negative opinions or thoughts about this story in the comments, in bookmarks or on Twitter. Thank you :)**


End file.
